Cross My Heart
by NeverNik
Summary: Hardworking Hermione is always at everyone's beck and call, with no time for herself. She sees a Healer for heart trouble and is shocked to find she only has a year to live. Well, she's going to spend that year having fun - with the help of certified playboy Draco Malfoy... (No deaths in the story.) Cover art by Sleepygrimm.
1. Chapter 1

** A/N: Hello and welcome to my new story. I apologise for the spoiler in the blurb, but previous experience has shown me that some readers give a story a miss if there's any reference of death to major characters. Still. I think it will be an entertaining story, and I hope you think so, too.**

** The plot is based on one of my favourite books **_**The Blue Castle **_**by L.M. Montgomery, she of the irrepressible **_**Anne of Green Gables **_**series. **

**Readers of Colleen McCullough **_**(The Thorn Birds) **_**may recognise the plot of her novella **_**The Ladies of Missalonghi. **_**It's alleged that Ms McCullough plagarised her novel, but as Anne Shirley once said: 'Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.' And as a fanfiction writer about to do the same, it resonates – as long as proper acknowledgement is made.**

** So, without further ado, the formalities: this story is based on **_**The Blue Castle **_**by L.M. Montgomery and features characters created by J.K. Rowling from her timeless **_**Harry Potter **_**series. ****It was created with the utmost respect for both writers, whose works influenced me to become a writer, too.**

* * *

**Post-Hogwarts, AU (no Voldemort), some OOC-ness to characters.**

* * *

**Ministry of Magic Archives**

** Towards the end of lunchtime**

'Miss Granger?'

Hidden in a nook snugly formed between two towering archive shelves, Hermione Granger's nose was firmly and metaphorically plonked between the pages of a book that took her breath away.

'MISS GRANGER?'

Enthralled, she silently turned a page. (The reading of fictitious materials – nay, the mere presence of fictitious materials in the Ministry of Magic's Archive was considered a personal affront to Chief Archivist Madam Tombend, the very witch who was hunting high and low for her assistant.)

_Pacing her chamber, Maid Marian was distracted by a tremendous pounding at her door. _

_She shrank back, looking desperately for somewhere to hide. Then – _

_ 'Marian!' Open the bloody door, will ya?'_

_ Oh! It wasn't that brooding, coldly handsome and allegedly very naughty Guy of Gisbourne, whose very eyes seared her soul. It was – _

'MISS GRANGER!'

Hermione blinked. Did someone call her name?

'MISS GRANGER, IF I CATCH YOU WITH A MUGGLE NOVEL IN YOUR HANDS, THAT WILL BE THE LAST NOVEL YOU WILL EVER HOLD!'

Disappointed, Hermione hid her historical romance in between layers of a stack of parchments on the reproduction habits of the cobra lily (a topic no one has bothered to retrieve for the last four hundred and fifty years). She crawled behind a row of shelves to a clearing ten-odd metres away, then popped into view with an innocent air and novel-less hands.

'Yes, Madam Tombend?'

Tall, bony and thoroughly scary Madam Tombend regarded Hermione and her immediate surroundings with supreme suspicion. 'You seem to spend a lot of time below desk level,' she mused over her horn-rimmed glasses.

Hermione half-heartedly brushed the dust from the knees of her trousers. 'Yes, Madam,' she said meekly.

'Well, just for a change, take one of the carts and pay a visit to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. They've finished whatever it was they were doing with their house-elf research, and have set aside their reports for archiving.'

Hermione gulped. That research was about the use of clothing as a means of freeing indentured elves. It took that Department about two years to complete.

'And don't forget to bring back any records they've borrowed!'

Oh, heck. Hermione remembered how many parchments she had to source and compile – by herself – for the team. It took her a good solid week.

'And please ensure everything is suitably filed away before you finish work,' Madam Tombend intoned.

A hand formed around Hermione's heart and squeezed.

Madam Tombend strode back to her desk to fetch her hat and cloak. 'I'll be in meetings for the rest of the day,' she added, sweeping towards the door. 'I look forward to seeing the fruits of your labour first thing tomorrow.'

'Yes, Madam Tombend,' Hermione winced.

With a slam of the door, Hermione was left alone in the vast, high-ceilinged, echoing chamber that served as the Ministry of Magic's Archive. It wasn't such a bad place, Hermione thought – pity it was located so far in the bowels of the Ministry's building that not a single molecule of natural light dared penetrate this vestibule.

Rubbing her hand over her chest, she fished a small piece of parchment out of her pocket which listed the details of her appointment with a specialist Healer tomorrow lunchtime. Her heart pains were getting worse. She'd put it off long enough.

A curl of her hair dangled in front of her nose. Sighing, she sent it back to its prison – a severe bun at the back of her head. It wouldn't do for her hair to be flopping around, obscuring her vision when she was miles up in the air on very rickety ladders that Madam Tombend refused to have inspected for safety.

Dolefully, she collected a wheel-less cart and charmed it to glide in front of her. Time to go back to work.

Maid Marian and her presumably complicated love life will have to wait.

At least she _has_ a love life.

* * *

**Six o'clock or thereabouts **

Almost shaking from exhaustion, Hermione nonetheless managed a rare smile as she surveyed her domain (only when Madam Tombend wasn't skulking about). Using all of her magical might to conjure sorting charms for the thousands of pieces of parchment on house-elf clothing (she noted that y-fronts didn't work very well as a tool of emancipation, according to one document), she managed to sort and shelve every single parchment into its appropriate home. The Archive looked pristine.

A job well done, she thought to herself. I'll celebrate with a nice, relaxing bath and a few more chapters of –

Her wand chimed ominously.

'Oh, damn it all!' she wailed to the rafters (a long way up). She'd completely forgotten! She was due to babysit Harry and Ginny's holy terrors while Mum and Dad attended a Ministry function of some sort.

She sucked in her breath when her heart clutched and heaved. She was exhausted and starving, and the last thing she wanted to do was to be pulled into a dozen different directions by two of the most hyperactive children she'd ever had the misfortune to meet.

But she couldn't let Harry and Ginny down at such late notice.

With drooping shoulders, Hermione picked up her bag and cloak, then headed to the Floos.

* * *

**12 Grimmauld Place **

'Aunty-'Mione-Aunty-'Mione-Aunty-'Mione-Aunty-'Mione-Aunty-'Mione-Aunty-'Mione-Aunty-'Mione!'

Before Hermione even stepped out of the Floo, she was accosted by the eldest of the Potter offspring, James Sirius, who'd wrapped his arms around her waist as far as he could reach and bounced up and down with glee.

'Hello, James!' Hermione smiled, bending to kiss his jam-sticky cheek. 'And where's – oof!'

Albus launched onto her back and wrapped his small arms around her neck in a vice-like grip. 'Mimey-Mimey-Mimey-Mimey-Mimey-Mimey-Mimey!' he shrieked into her ear.

'Can't – breathe' – she gasped, sinking to one knee while trying to prise Albus's fingers apart.

'Aww, they're always so happy to see you!' Harry beamed, pulling Albus off Hermione's back. 'How are you, love?' he asked, kissing Hermione's non-jammy cheek.

'Well' –

'Is that Hermione?' a voice floated down the stairs. 'About bloody time! We're late!'

Hermione's chest compressed again, but she still summoned a smile for Ginny, who came down the stairs, looking lovely in a sage-green gown. Her auburn hair shimmered to perfection.

'No, James, don't touch Mummy's dress,' she gently chided while kissing Hermione hello. 'I'm sorry, it's just that this is an important night for Harry, and' –

'No, it's fine, sorry I was late,' Hermione murmured. 'You look absolutely lovely.'

But Ginny was already distracted, trying to work out which of her formal cloaks clashed least with her dress. 'Now, the boys have had their tea – Harry, have you cleaned up after them?'

'Oh! Um, no, sorry.'

'Oh, Merlin! Hermione, would you mind?'

'No, not at all' -

'And then their bath at eight, and bed straight afterwards – just one bedtime story, all right boys?' she called.

'Yes, Mum,' they parroted innocently.

'And we'll be back before ten. Promise!' Now suitably cloaked, she brushed a few spots of dust off Harry's, then beamed at her children. 'Now, you be extra good for Aunty Hermione, won't you?' she exclaimed.

'Yes, Mum.'

'Right! We'll be off. See you nice and early in the morning, boys!'

They didn't answer, having disappeared up the stairs.

'Thanks again, Hermione! You're a star!'

The Potter parents hopped into the Floo, and with a whoosh of green smoke, they disappeared.

Hermione hadn't even taken off her cloak.

* * *

Heading into the kitchen, she flinched at the aftermath of the tornado that must have run through it. Chairs were overturned, plates were on the floor, the jam had escaped its jar and was blobbing innocently in the middle of the kitchen table. Milk dripped over the edge and headed for the dubious safety of the floor.

'Aunty 'Mione!'

She took a breath and turned around. James was holding what looked like a glass aquarium. It had pebbles and oxygen weed, but it was missing two rather crucial items: water and some form of sea life.

'Yes, sweetheart?'

'This is Timmy's house.'

'That's nice. And, um, where is Timmy?'

'I'm not sure.'

Hermione counted to five. 'And what is Timmy?'

'He's a fish.'

Of course he is. He couldn't have been a creature that had a slight chance of surviving more than a minute without water. Oh, dear me, no.

'Do you happen to know where the water went?'

James nodded vigorously. 'It's on Albus.'

Hermione blinked. Then: 'What?'

'He wanted to feed Timmy but he had to climb onto a table first and he lost his footing and grabbed the edge of the aquarium and the water fell out and it landed on him.'

Before Hermione could say a word, Albus plodded wetly into the kitchen, absolutely wringing wet from head to toe. Oxygen weed sprouted from behind his ears, and a little treasure chest poked out of his pyjama pocket. Despite his waterlogged state, he beamed from ear to ear.

'I don't need a bath now, Mimey!' he cheered.

* * *

**The next day – lunchtime **

Harry and Ginny didn't quite get home before ten.

More like eleven-thirty.

The kids finally fell asleep at eleven twenty-five.

Hence, the calm oasis of the Healer's waiting room nearly put Hermione to sleep.

But she prodded herself into wakefulness when her name was called, and she staggered into the Healer's consulting room.

* * *

'Miss... what's that again?'

Hermione's Healer was a tiny old wizard who appeared to be completely deaf in one and a half ears. Probably due to all the white hair sprouting out of them.

'Granger,' Hermione repeated as patiently as she could.

'Ah, yes!' The venerable old gent made a note on his parchment. 'And what can I do for you today, Missy?'

'Well, it's my heart,' Hermione began.

'Your farts?'

'Uh, no, my heart!' She pointed to her chest.

'Oh, your heart! Well, then! Tell me all!'

* * *

It was a gruelling appointment, but Hermione bore it stoically. She'd tolerate almost anything to get some treatment.

After re-buttoning up her clothing, she sat down in front of the Healer's desk while he scribbled frantically on his parchment.

He looked up. 'Ah! There you are!' he said, as if he was wondering where she'd been hiding all this time.

'Do you know what the problem is, Healer?' she asked wearily.

He nodded vigorously. 'Well, it's' –

Suddenly, the door to his room burst open, and the receptionist poked her rather agitated head through. 'I'm sorry, Healer Profeus, but there's an emergency!'

The Healer cupped a hand behind his ear. 'There's an insurgency?'

'No, Healer, an emergency! You're desperately needed!'

'Oh, my, oh my!' The Healer hopped off his tall chair and grabbed a medical bag that was nearly two-thirds his size. 'Lead the way, my dear!'

Flabbergasted, Hermione called out 'But - Healer Profeus!'

Too late. She was alone.

Stumbling to her feet, she made her way back to Reception, determined to find answers – but not a soul was to be found.

Well, she huffed. I'm not paying good money for that consultation!

But it would still be nice to know what in Godric's name was wrong with her.

Despondent, she headed back to the Ministry, rubbing her chest along the way.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks very much for your response to chapter 1!**

* * *

Hermione got her wish a few days later.

One grey, dull, morning, a small, almost snowy-white owl rapped politely at her kitchen window. She opened it and patted the owl on its head, enjoying how soft and warm its feathers were. In turn, the owl closed its eyes and leaned into her hand, drumming a foot on the ledge in gibbering happiness.

Regretfully, she took the owl's envelope and fed it some treats. The owl scrunched them down and suddenly remembered it had a job to do, soaring off into the otherwise ordinary ether.

Returning to her tiny kitchen table in her tiny flat, she sipped her tea and inspected the envelope. It bore the Healer's seal. Curious, she opened the letter and began to read.

Many minutes later, she realised she'd been sitting at her table without moving, and her tea was stone cold. She placed the cup on the scarred wooden table and picked the letter up again.

_Dear Miss Grainger,_

_I shall be direct, as I find this is for the best when imparting news of this kind. _

_You have a rare and serious heart disease, and I'm afraid there is no treatment. If you take great care of yourself you may live for another year – but you might also die at any moment._

_You must avoid all forms of excitement, eat and drink moderately, and go up stairs and up hills with great care._

_Any sudden shock or jolt may well prove fatal. _

_Please find enclosed a prescription for a potion. Carry it with you at all times, and take a dose when you feel an attack come on._

_I remain your faithful servant, _

_Healer Profeus._

Huh.

Hermione let the parchment flutter to the table.

She, Hermione Granger, who'd never really lived, was going to die.

* * *

She wondered what her funeral would be like.

There'd be her parents, of course. And Harry, Ginny and the Weasleys – the former wondering where they could find another reliable babysitter. They'd probably have to take the kids to the funeral. Ginny wouldn't like that.

Would anyone from work come? It was doubtful. Madam Tombend would probably continue to send indignant owls to her flat, demanding her attendance at work, long after she'd received the memo that her diligent, hardworking, mousy assistant was dead.

And what would it be like when she broke the news to them all?

She supposed they would be shocked at first. Then wonder what to say, unable to look her in the eye. Maybe guiltily think to themselves: 'I'm glad it's not me.'

And the pity. Showing clear in their eyes. Dear gods, it will be unbearable.

Do I need to tell them at all?

She rubbed her eyes, which were surprisingly dry.

Then she stood up. Might as well go to work.

* * *

**Ministry Archives **

**Lunchtime **

Hermione was in her nook, catching up with Maid Marian and her two suitors. Yes, two. What would it be like to have two suitors? Hermione wondered.

What would it be like to have even one?

_With Robin's kiss still stinging her lips, she wandered through Nottingham Castle and found herself in the Long Gallery, her basket of wild roses trailing from her hand, as if an afterthought. She touched her lips. Her first kiss. _

_'Marian.'_

_Her name, in cold patrician tones, echoed throughout the Gallery._

_Startled, she jumped, and roses tumbled to the ground and nestled among the rushes. As she bent to collect them, she realised the area was completely deserted._

_Except for her. _

_And Sir Guy of Gisbourne._

_'Leave them,' he commanded, and she did, biting her lip. She wished she had the courage to tell him she would do as she pleased – but the moment she matched his stern, blue stare, butterflies took flight in her stomach._

_He'd reached her by now; was so close she could smell his clean scent of polished leather and sandalwood – much preferred to the dirt and smoke and stale, unwashed clothes of Robin's camp, she had to admit._

_He brought his hand to her face. She closed her eyes – but he pulled a twig of greenery from her long, curly hair. He raised an eyebrow. _

_'Frolicking in the forest?' he drawled._

_Marian swallowed nervously. 'In a manner of speaking.'_

_ He stepped even closer. Marian swore she could feel his eyes move over her body. Her face. Her lips. _

_ 'All alone in the forest?'_

_ Her pulse thundered in her throat. Had he had her followed? Should she lie? Will he let her get away with it?_

_ She bravely met his steel-blue gaze. 'Yes,' she said with outward confidence. 'All by myself.'_

_ His hand reached out again, but this time his thumb gently pulled on her lower lip while he tilted her head up. _

_Desire coursed through her body._

_ 'You're supposed to have a chaperone,' he murmured. _

_ The tip of Marian's tongue darted out and wet her lip – catching the tip of Guy's thumb in the process. His pupils dilated, but his expression didn't change._

_ 'Chaperones can go hang,' she replied. _

_ Finally, Guy's mouth quirked up at one corner. 'Ladies who gallivant around the place without chaperones are liable to find themselves in trouble,' he remarked, as if he was talking about the weather._

_ 'It's a chance this lady is prepared to take.'_

_ 'What of your reputation?' _

_ His hand trailed from her lip to her throat; found her hammering pulse, and gently caressed it._

_ 'I find discretion to be the better part of valour, my Lord.' Her voice dwindled to a whisper. _

_ 'For a man of honour, yes.' His voice was gritted. _

_ 'You __are __a man of honour, sir.' Marian might be very confused about her feelings for Guy, but his sense of honour towards a lady of breeding had never been in doubt._

_ He trailed his hand to her jaw; his fingers glided through her loose hair. 'I always question that when I'm with you,' he murmured, his lips so very close to hers._

_ Under his spell, she leaned in to him, parting her lips on a breath._

_ He whispered her name – _

'MISS GRANGER!'

Hermione sighed and closed her book. She stood up where she was, holding her book. 'Yes, Madam Tombend?'

Madam Tombend blinked. 'What's that in your hands?' she demanded.

Hermione glanced down at Maid Marian, looking resplendent on the book's cover between two very toned men with waxed chests and shadowy faces. 'It's a book, Madam.'

'A FICTION BOOK?' she thundered.

Hermione winced. 'I'm right here, Madam, there's not need for you to shout.'

Madam Tombend boggled at this most unlikely display of spine. 'Well, I never!' she blustered. She thought about launching into a pointed lecture about manners and respecting one's superiors, but Hermione's blank face gave her pause.

'It's stocktake time!' she announced instead. 'We (by which she meant Hermione) need to count every single piece of parchment, from Abarimon to the House of Zabini and everything in between. We'll need to be done in the next few days, as I'm expecting a shipment of slightly charred material from a school that accidentally set itself on fire.'

Hermione looked around the vast Archive. It would take two people a good week to stocktake this depository, even with magic. But since she knew she would be the only one actually working, the task was simply impossible.

She levelled her gaze on Madam Tombend. 'Actually, Madam, I'd like to apply for the afternoon off.'

Madam's mouth fell open. 'I-I beg your pardon?' she stuttered.

'I'd also like tomorrow off, too.' Strike while the iron is hot, Hermione reasoned. While she still had the courage.

Madam Tombend's powers of speech returned to her. 'What's this?' she thundered. 'Days off? This Archive does not simply take days off, Missy! How is an archive supposed to run without staff? Tell me that!'

'Well, Madam, you took time off to attend the Annual Wizarding Archivists Conference.'

Madam Tombend rolled her heavily mascaraed eyes. 'That was work, Miss Granger.'

'Work which you attended in the Bahamas, whereas the conference was actually held in Battersea.'

Rare colour bloomed in Madam Tombend's cheeks. 'An easy mistake to make,' she muttered. 'They both start with B. Then A.'

'If you recall, Madam, I haven't taken a single day's holiday since I started here five years ago,' Hermione continued. 'I wonder what Human and Creature Resources would think about that?'

Erk. Madam Tombend didn't want to run afoul of Human and Creature Resources. Especially when Accounting were still pestering her to present her receipts from her 'conference.' They were situated on the same floor, perilously close to the Minister's office.

'Fine, then!' Madam Tombend said dramatically, putting a pale, bony hand to her pale, bony forehead. 'Leave me in the lurch, why don't you? Don't spare a thought for your overworked superior! Just run along and have your fun!'

Hermione smiled. 'Thanks very much, Madam,' she said, grabbing her handbag. Then she, her handbag and Maid Marian calmly sailed out the door.

Madam Tombend stared at that very same door when it closed, her mouth opening and closing like James and Albus's unfortunate Timmy.

Something went rather wrong, she thought. But how did it happen?

She looked at the vast Archive shelves - and decided to book another 'conference.' One that started this evening, preferably.

* * *

Yesterday afternoon was rather delightful. Once inside her tiny flat, Hermione kicked off her shoes and shed her frumpy work clothes along the hallway to her bathroom, where she ran a bath. She detoured to her kitchen to fetch a decadent glass of wine and spent the rest of the day mostly submerged in the warm, relaxing water, one hand holding her book – and the other holding her glass of wine.

Hermione preferred Guy and Marian's first kiss to Robin and Marian's, truth be told. What is it about bad boys?

* * *

**The next day**

The next day, she woke up bright and early, as usual. It took her some time to work out how to spend her next few days of freedom. But she thought she'd start with a walking tour of wizarding London.

She opened up her wardrobe and contemplated its contents. There wasn't much to inspire her. It mostly consisted of trousers and fitted shirts with three-quarter sleeves in various shades of black, grey and brown. Archiving was a rather dusty and dirty business.

But somewhere towards the back, she made a discovery. There lurked a sole sundress in a swirl of blue colours and a halter neck top. Ginny bought it for herself but didn't like it, and so gifted it to Hermione. With some adjustments made for Hermione's larger bosom, she hung it in the wardrobe and promptly forgot about it.

She pulled it out and held it over her body while she hopped up and down to try and get an idea of how it looked in her small bathroom mirror. Then she remembered she wasn't allowed to hop, and stopped.

Who cares what she'll look like? She reasoned. It will be nice to wear something that wasn't her dreary work clothing.

She threw caution to the wind and put it on.

* * *

**Wizarding London **

Hermione spent a pleasant, if disconcerting, day wondering around the shops and sights of wizarding London. Pleasant, because it was a nice, warm day, and she enjoyed window shopping and perusing the bookshops. Disconcerting, because she honestly couldn't remember the last time she didn't have anything to do or wasn't at someone's constant beck and call.

She decided to end her day with a nice, florally cup of tea in a bar/café that was supposed to be all the rage for some reason. Scuttling inside, she kept her head down while searching out the smallest table in the darkest section of the establishment. Quietly ordering a pot of camomile, orange blossom and honey tea (and a Neenish Tart), she pulled Maid Marian out of her handbag again.

Another scene with Marian and Guy!

Even though Hermione knew that most accounts of the famous fable ended with Marian shacking up with Robin Hood, she also knew that modern renditions tended to have Guy of Gisbourne sniffing around her as a 'will they/won't they' love interest. And surely, a book with two semi-naked men flanking a lovely young woman on the cover would indicate some naughty times with both?

She opened her book and sipped her tea.

_Marian knocked softly at Guy's door with trembling fingers. She nearly missed his muttered 'Come.'_

_When she pushed the heavy oak door open, she let her eyes adjust to the soft glow from the room's sole candle near his bed. Guy stood in one corner with his back to her, easing the last of the chain mail from his torso. He let out a hiss when the deep gash across his upper arm met the air. _

'_Just put the water bowl on the table,' he muttered without turning around._

_When Marian murmured 'Yes, my Lord,' he whirled around in shock. Her eyes widened at the sight of his bare skin, toned, taut and scarred around his frame._

'_Where is my vassal?' he bit out, too surprised to even think about covering himself._

'_Prince John demanded his presence,' Marian replied, mesmerised by the stuttered rise and fall of his chest. 'There is no-one spare but me.'_

_Guy sighed and dipped his hands into the warm water, splashing his face and his hair, turning the blonde colour darker. 'Am I expected to stitch my own wounds?' he demanded, but not with much heat._

'_No, sir.' Marian pulled her sewing supplies from her pocket. 'I will.'_

_Guy warily eyed the tools in her delicate hand, then looked dismissively at her. 'No.'_

_Marian bristled. 'Why not?'_

_Guy smirked, a movement which mostly hid the pain in his arm. 'I'm not a bloody tapestry, woman.'_

_She folded her arms. 'I can see that. But I believe you conceal the truth from me.'_

_Guy ran a hand through his wet hair, then shook out the excess. 'And what truth would that be, my Lady?'_

_Marian stepped right up to him and rose on her tip-toes. 'You don't think a woman is capable.'_

_Now he snorted with laughter. 'Have you stitched a man's flesh together before?' he asked._

_Marian's gaze skidded to the left. 'Surely the principles are the same.'_

_Guy's expression closed off. 'That's enough, Marian. Leave me be and send word to the Hall for a male to aid me.'_

'_No!'_

_A patrician eyebrow raised upwards. 'Did you say 'no?''_

'_Look,' Marian wheedled, 'you have nothing to lose by letting me try. If my work isn't good enough for you, or I cast up my accounts, I will find you a man and you may lord it over me for the rest of the time we share a roof. Deal?'_

_Guy's blue eyes bored into her. At length, he shrugged. 'Fine.'_

* * *

_Guy was a surprisingly good patient, and she wasn't too bad a stitcher, considering it was her first time on a canvas that moved and bled and felt pain. He sat immobile on a stool, his fists resting on his leather-clad thighs. His chest rose and fell in steady breaths, even when Marian's needle and thread sliced through his flesh. _

_For her part, she was too caught up in her work to feel ill. Taking care to make each stitch neat and even, she didn't notice how close she sat next to him, or how errant curls of her hair fell onto his back. _

_His scent proved intoxicating, this close. She wondered what he would do if she put her lips to his warm skin, and her hand shook. Fortunately she was on her last stitch, and she tied it off, waiting for his judgement._

_He ran his fingers lightly over her work. 'It's good,' he said simply. 'Thank you.'_

_Relieved, Marian collected her binding material and, standing over him, wound the bandages over his bicep. She leaned in to tie them closed, and she jumped when Guy let out a hiss._

'_Did I hurt you, my Lord?'_

'_No,' Guy muttered. Then: 'You torment me.'_

'_I-what do you mean?' she asked, confused. _

_He stood up, now towering over her. She took a step back, but he filled the space again. 'You, Marian,' he gritted, his eyes a deep and penetrating blue. 'Your hair tumbling down my back. The scent of your skin. Your fingers on my flesh. You have aroused me almost to the point of no return, and you need to leave, now, before I forget I am a knight and you are a Lady.'_

_Marian trembled. Not with fright. A beautiful, mysterious, half-naked man stood before her, confessing his desire even as he strived to protect her reputation._

_He was on the edge._

_And so was she. _

'_Guy,' she whispered._

'_Go now, Marian,' he warned, even as his trembling hand slowly raised to touch her face._

_She shook her head. 'I want to stay here. With you.'_

_Silence stretched between them – a second; or infinity._

'_God help us,' he muttered. Then he pulled her body to his and kissed her hard._

* * *

_Each touched the other's body in a desperate need to know more of a person they already knew, but in so many ways were strangers. Marian felt the hard length at Guy's groin, and revelled in his groan as she brushed against him. His fingers worked at her bodice, teasing the undersides of her breasts as he unlaced – _

Hermione's reverie was interrupted by a gods-awful braying of laughter from a trio of inconsiderates a few tables away. She looked over irritably.

There sat three of the Wizarding world's most spoiled brats (as far as Hermione was concerned). She knew them from school – all Slytherin to man – dark-eyed Theo Nott, the ebony-skinned Blaise Zabini (whose family tree resided proudly in the Ministry Archive), and most maddening of all, blond-haired, quicksilver-eyed Draco Malfoy. Filthy rich and bone idle, the lot. And, as far as Hermione could ascertain, knocking back the bar's best Firewhisky and competing with each other as to who could let loose the loudest belly laugh/belch.

Hermione tried to tune them out and return to Marian and Guy's state of undress...

... but they were too damn self-entitled.

'So, you lucky bastard,' Nott laughed, 'what's your first stop on your world tour?'

'Well,' Draco drawled, eyeing a pretty witch as she sashayed past their table, 'I'm starting with Ireland. Just a short Portkey across the ditch.'

'The Emerald Isle,' Zabini mused. 'Lots of lovely creamy-skinned, green-eyed witches there.'

'To be sure,' Draco drawled in a rather convincing Irish accent. 'I'll be sure to let you know if that is, indeed, the case.'

'And after Ireland?' Nott asked.

'Maybe France,' Draco shrugged. 'Who knows? 'The world is my oyster, so the Muggles say!'

Hermione drained her tea. What a lucky bastard! To travel the world, and not even know where he was bound from one day to the next!

She wished she could do that.

She put her cup down.

Maybe... she could do that?

She glanced at Draco again. The prattling prick.

Was she prepared to throw caution, good taste and judgement to the wind?

Well, yes. She rather thought she was.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: new cover art is from the supremely talented Sleepygrimm – thank you for putting my words into pictures!**

**Reminder: this is a no Voldemort AU. In this AU, Hermione and Draco went to the same school but didn't know each other very well. **

* * *

At length (two more pots of tea for Hermione) Draco left his cronies and sashayed forth into Diagon Alley, no doubt intent on getting up to no good at another venue, Hermione (rather unfairly) surmised. Look at him! Not even a wobble in his step from all the Firewhisky he tossed down his throat!

Meanwhile, Hermione rather desperately needed to visit the loo, but just as she was about to make a dash to the facilities, Draco chose that moment to quit the premises, of course. So after waiting a teeny little time to put some 'I'm not stalking you' distance between them, she paid and headed out.

Except he was nowhere to be seen when she exited the building.

Hermione's heart plummeted and her bladder lurched from port to starboard. What if he apparated somewhere?

But no! A little lucky ray of sunlight caught his bright-blonde hair. It looked like he was heading to that most male and macho of emporiums: Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Forging ahead when every part of her body (especially her bladder) was screaming 'NO!' she put on some speed and followed. 'Malfoy!' she called.

Uncertainly, Draco stopped and looked around. Had someone called him? He couldn't see anyone he knew. He shrugged and continued on his way.

Hermione took a deep breath and tried again. 'Draco Malfoy!' she called in more assertive tones, cheeks as red as tomatoes.

Draco turned around again. Who the hell is calling him?' he wondered, irritated. Everyone seemed to be going about their daily business, except for that drab-looking girl with hair that's frizzed itself into a halo around her sallow face –

Oh, he muttered to himself when she met his eye and stepped forward. It _is _that girl.

He stepped forward uncertainly. 'Forgive me, have we met?' he asked politely.

The girl in the blue dress (rather ample knockers on her, Draco half-noticed) rolled her eyes. 'We went to school together, Malfoy,' she replied. 'Hermione Granger.'

Draco looked blank.

'Gryffindor House?'

Nope. No clanging bells. Why would Slytherins have reason to remember Gryffindors, anyway?

'I beat you in every subject except Potions?'

Hmm... something was swirling in the ether of his foggy mind. A know-it-all swot whose hair frizzed into a halo when bending over a Potions cauldron... yes! The hair! Exactly like what's standing in front of him now!

'Miss Granger, of course!' he replied politely. 'Do forgive my treacherous memory. And... um, how are you?'

Hermione waved his attempt at civility away. 'I – I overheard you talking about a world tour to your friends,' she blurted. 'Forgive me, but you were kind of – sort of – loud.'

Draco wasn't used to young ladies approaching him in the middle of the street for inane chit-chat. 'Yes, that's right,' he replied, looking side-long at the quidditch shop. 'Just going to get some supplies now, as a matter of fact.'

Hermione nodded absent-mindedly. She was clutching her handbag rather tightly, Draco noticed. And why was she standing with one leg wrapped around the other?

She breathed in and out a couple of times, bit her lip, then burst out 'Malfoy, I have a proposal for you.'

Oh, gods. The proposals he usually received from women involved naked bodies and boudoirs. He tried to head her off at the pass. 'I'm flattered, Miss Granger, but we barely know each other' –

Hermione looked horrified. 'No, that's not what I meant at all!' she exclaimed. 'I want to come with you. As your... um' – she wracked her brains – 'as your secretary. Your social secretary.'

* * *

Draco couldn't help it.

A snigger escaped his lips.

Then it quickly developed into a guffaw.

Hermione stood in middle of Diagon Alley, patiently waiting for Malfoy to stop laughing at her. Streams of people surged around the stationary pair, wondering what the joke was.

Eventually Draco laughed himself out, dashing a tear from his eye. 'Sorry,' he gasped, 'but that really tickled my funny bone.'

'I'm serious,' Hermione said frostily.

Draco peered at her. By gods, she is.

'Okay, I'll admit I'm curious,' he said, crossing his arms. 'Why do you want to accompany me on my world tour? Since you've made it clear you're not interested in my body.' A fact which he found very hard to believe.

She looked down at her sensible sandals. 'I want to spend the year having fun,' she muttered. 'But I don't know how. It doesn't come naturally to me. So, I want to learn from someone who knows how to have fun and is ... fun-loving. In return, I can help you by making bookings, sorting appointments, organising portkeys, currency exchange, even advising on Muggle places to visit.'

He was silent, and when she looked up, his face was cracked into a cynical smirk. 'So, why now?' he asked. 'What's happened that's made you decide to throw in your lot with an international playwizard?'

Hermione pulled Healer Profeus's letter out of her handbag and gave it to him.

Curious, he unfolded the letter and read it.

* * *

**A minute or so later**

Draco's silver eyes met hers. They were solemn and regretful.

'Don't be sorry,' Hermione replied before he could utter a word. 'I don't want your pity. I only showed you that letter to make you understand that after this year, I won't be around to ask anything of you ever again. I don't want to live my last year living my dreary life. I want to see new places, experience new things, meet new people, and live the way you do. Without all the Malfoy money, obviously.'

'Uh-huh,' Draco muttered.

'I'm neat and tidy and organised. I'm sure I can be of use to you. I could free up more time for you to lounge by poolsides drinking cocktails and bed old men's mistresses and engage in acts of ridiculous death-defiance.' She paused. 'Or whatever it is you do.'

'That's pretty close,' he conceded.

They were silent for a bit. Neither knowing whose turn it was to talk. And what that person should say.

Eventually, Draco broke the silence.

'Come to my flat tonight at eight,' he said. 'We'll work out the details.'

Hermione boggled. She did it!

She burst into a rare smile. 'Thanks, Malfoy!' she said, shaking his hand. 'You won't regret it, and I promise I won't get in your way.'

'I really have to get going,' Draco said, backing in the direction of the quidditch shop.

'Me too,' Hermione agreed.

'Me three!' wailed her bladder.

He shook a finger at her. 'Promise me I won't regret this!' he ordered.

She laughed before disappearing to the nearest venue that had a public toilet.

* * *

**That evening**

**Draco's flat **

Draco sat in his sparse, modernist living room, letting a bottle of red wine breathe. It wasn't his most expensive bottle, of course. This was Granger coming to visit, not Miss Witch Universe. Still, in light of the occasion, he pulled out a bottle from his medium-to-getting-up-there range.

Plenty good for a Gryffindor.

Sure enough, at exactly the appointed hour, Hermione arrived at his apartment by Floo (having previously consumed some of the potion Healer Profeus prescribed, since her heart was jumping about all over the place). She was still wearing the same blue dress, but she'd put some sort of hideous lumpy, grey cardigan over her arms. Luckily for Draco the bosom view wasn't impeded.

After stiff and formal niceties, Draco received his first surprise.

Hermione picked up the glass of wine Draco poured her. She swirled the ruby liquid around, and held the glass to her nose. Closing her eyes, she took a delicate but appreciative sniff. Finally, she took a sip, holding the wine in her mouth a moment before swallowing.

Draco watched the movement of her throat and felt inexplicably tight in his pants.

She smiled at Draco in open admiration.

'That's a really lovely merlot,' she said. 'Much nicer than the ones I can afford to buy, for sure.'

'You like wine?' Draco asked in a voice an octave higher than usual.

'Yeah, well, I try,' she replied. 'I love the different complexities of taste and aroma... but I'm not a pro at it by any means. I bet you know lots.'

'Well... yeah.' Draco couldn't help but preen a little.

Hermione bit her lip, then burst out with: 'Maybe when we're overseas, we could check out a few vineyards and you could show me what you know?'

That didn't sound like an altogether hideous way of spending some time. Draco nodded. 'All right. Any opportunity to school the school swot, am I right?'

To his relief, she grinned and poked her tongue out at him.

'Okay.' Draco topped up the wine and charmed up a blank contract, which came complete with Self-Inking Quill and floated conveniently in the air between the pair. 'As we are entering into a business arrangement, we need to lay down some rules. These rules will be recorded in a contract. We both get a copy. Any issues, we first look to the contract to resolve. If the contract is silent on the matter, we'll work out an arrangement and add it. Okay?'

Hermione nodded. 'You'd better go first. I don't have many conditions.'

Draco leaned back in his comfy chair. 'Well, you should probably know that my parents have specific objectives for my world tour. Father wants me to scout for business opportunities to help expand Malfoy Enterprises when I start work for them at the end of the year.'

Hermione nodded seriously.

'My mother' – here Draco rolled his eyes – 'wants me to find a suitable witch to settle down with and marry. We haven't had any luck finding a 'suitable witch' (finger quotes) within England, so she's trusting me to scour the planet for a suitable bride.'

Hermione had nothing to say to that, so both of her raised eyebrows said it for her.

'And my objective,' Draco finished, 'is to have as much fun as I can cram into twelve months before I shackle myself to the twin weights of business and family.' He looked up at Hermione. 'See where I'm going with this?'

'I think so,' Hermione replied.

'I have just one personal condition that I can think of,' Draco continued. 'If I'm with a witch – you're not to be on the scene. I expect you to make yourself scarce and entertain yourself.'

Hermione nodded. She asked (earnestly, as far as Draco could tell) 'Is this expected to be a regular occurrence?'

Draco grinned. 'Oh, I hope so.'

Hermione looked around his room vaguely, then cleared her throat and said 'I only have one requirement. It's pretty simple.'

Draco checked the self-writing contract. 'Go on.'

She cleared her throat. 'The topic of my illness and impending death is never to be discussed. Between us, or with anyone else,' she said.

Draco sat up. 'Why' –

She interrupted him. 'I mean it,' she said. 'I don't want you worrying about what I can and can't do. I don't want you to make excuses for my state of health, and end up excluding me from anything. Just pretend I'm a normal person – until the day I'm not. Whenever that may be.'

Draco took a long swig of wine. Putting her terminal illness out his head could be easier said than done. Then again, if he was going to die, the last thing he'd want is to have worrywarts hovering around him, saying he's too frail to do this and that.

He swallowed the wine and nodded. 'Agreed.'

She raised her glass in a toast.

'One last thing,' Draco said, emptying the dregs of the wine into their glasses. 'Your salary.'

Hermione's wine nearly spouted from her nostrils. 'My what?' she exclaimed incredulously.

'You're my social secretary. You are due a salary.'

'Oh, but' –

Ignoring her, Draco named a salary that exceeded her Assistant Archivist chicken scratchings by such a huge margin Hermione's vision went cross-eyed. Although that could have been due to the wine.

'If you don't accept it, you're not coming,' Draco growled.

'Um... okay,' she said faintly.

'Excellent!' Draco stood up, and signed the contract. He sent to Hermione, who signed a wobbly facsimile of her own signature. The contract shimmered, then cloned itself, each one rolling into a scroll, complete with ribbon and seal.

'A wine to celebrate?' Draco asked.

'Actually,' Hermione quavered, 'could I have a hot chocolate instead?'


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Maid Marian-related lemonish lemon**

* * *

Two different people packed for their adventure.

Let's start with Hermione:

* * *

**Hermione's flat**

A year abroad! Travelling through both hemispheres, all four seasons, all kinds of weather, cultural requirements... maybe some swimming...

She looked at her bony white limbs and shuddered.

It was a moot point anyway – she didn't own a swimsuit.

As for underwear: her ramshackle collection of sensible black, nude or white 'mix and matches' were thrown into her sturdy carpetbag – loose threads, worn elastic and all.

As for clothes? Well, there was her blue dress, of course, and... um...

In went the office trousers and three-quarter sleeve shirts. And matching shoes.

Cosmetics and haircare products? Her lip balm, concealer, hairbrush and two-in-one shampoo took up next to no room. She made a note to check to see she had enough sunscreen potion.

Wizarding papers and Muggle passport? Check.

Oh! She couldn't forget a selection of reading material!

Thirty books were added to the bag.

And not forgetting Maid Marian, of course...

* * *

_Marian took her time committing every inch of Guy's sleeping body to memory. Shadows flickered along his arms and torso, courtesy of the waning candle by his bed. _

_He was a finely put-together man, she admitted. Every limb was long and toned with muscle. His chest was free of the bear's pelt of hair that most of Robin's men seemed to possess. And his organ – she blushed. Well, she had no other comparison. But when Guy slowly, carefully, slid inside her wet, willing body, he stretched and filled her to perfection. Awakening parts of her own body she never knew existed. _

_She raised her gaze to his face – and blushed again. _

_Sir Guy of Gisbourne's enigmatic eyes were open, watching the woman in his bed conduct a stocktake of his body._

_'Is what you see to your liking?' he asked. _

_Marian held her head high. 'It is,' she said. Taking a breath, she replied 'And what say you of me?'_

_Guy's gaze travelled over her riotously-dishevelled curls to her elfin-featured face. They next lingered over her high, full breasts, the nipples still red from his lips._

_Past her trim waist, then to the still-damp curls between her legs. _

_Marian's bravado left her, and she covered herself with her hand._

_He took that hand and placed it on his resurrected erection._

_Her eyes widened. _

_'I believe you have your answer,' Guy replied with a quick but endearing smile. _

_He moved over her body. Just before his lips took hers, he vowed 'I have made you mine, Marian. Just as you have made me yours.'_

_Just as Marian wondered what that meant, the candle burned out._

* * *

Hermione hugged the book to her chest, daydreaming.

Until she noticed the time. Yikes! She had some things to settle at the Ministry.

* * *

**Draco's flat**

As for Draco's packing:

Naturally, Draco didn't do the _actual_ packing. That was left to his house-elf, who worked under the direction of his Master.

Mirko scurried in and out of Draco's immense walk-in wardrobe, holding up item after item for Master Draco to consider, of whom the latter was sprawled on his bed, looking at letters of introduction from the creme-de-la-creme of European and Northern American wizarding society.

The other continents might get a look-in. If needed.

'Which of theses formal robeses should Mirko pack, Master?' the little elf warbled. He was almost impossible to see beneath the rotation of Draco's formal robes, which were hanging in mid-air.

Draco gave Mirko a withering look. 'All of them, of course.'

'Excellent, Master!' Mirko sent the formal robes over to Draco's open trunk, then dashed back into the wardrobe.

He popped out again a moment later with a parade of shirts. 'And which of these does Master want?'

Draco didn't look up from the letters. 'All of them.'

And as for trousers, casual wear, shoes, underwear and swimwear...

'Didn't you hear me, Mirko?' Draco shouted, annoyed. 'I said, ALL OF THEM!'

Mirko stared doubtfully at the pile of clothing that spilled out of the trunk and formed a pyramid of finest silks, linens, Scottish wools, cashmeres and cottons on top of it. 'But, Master,' he ventured. 'everything that was in your wardyrobes is now sitting on top of your trunky!'

Draco sighed. 'Well then, shrink them!' he expostulated. 'Merlin, do I have to do everything around here?'

* * *

**Ministry of Magic **

Once inside the Ministry's beautiful atrium, Hermione took a swig of her potion, and watched the water spouting from the Fountain of Magical Brethren until it took effect. Feeling calmer, she headed to the lifts that took her to the Ministry's dark and mysterious bowels.

Upon opening one of the heavy doors to the Archive, she was surprised to see that the magnificent depository had a visitor. The last time it had a visitor was... let's see... nine months ago? And she wasn't sure it counted as a visit, because the poor chap was new to the Ministry and gotten himself hopelessly lost and had only popped his head around the door to ask for directions.

This time, the visitor was Mr Zebadiah Asquith, the Manager of Antiquities at the Ministry – and Madam Tombend's boss.

Neither had noticed the arrival of the timid little worker bee, so she made herself useful and eavesdropped behind the door.

'I'm telling you, Madam Tombend,' said Mr Asquith, a tall beanpole of a man who had a hunch from having to constantly lean over to communicate with people, 'there's simply no way Accounts could have mislaid every single one of your receipts from the Battersea conference! One or two, possibly. But all of them? It's very suspicious, if you ask me.'

Madam Tombend, who wasn't in the best of moods to start with since she couldn't find a halfway decent and/or relevant overseas conference to book herself on, drew herself up to her full height and eyeballed Mr Asquith through his prince-nez. 'I assure you, Mr Asquith,' she said in tones that could have frozen an erupting volcano in its tracks, 'I sent them off to Accounts with my girl. So if the receipts never made it to Accounts, I suggest you take your nose and park it over her.'

'Girl?' Asquith poked through his parchments. 'What girl?'

Hermione chose to make an entrance. A mousy entrance, but still an entrance.

She pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside the Archive. 'Good morning Madam Tombend, Mr Asquith,' she murmured.

'Ah! That's the girl, that's the one, there!' Madam Tombend could hardly contain her glee at the thought of piling her fraudulent activities on top of someone else.

Mr Asquith peered at Hermione. 'Who are you?' he asked blankly.

'Hermione Granger, sir, Assistant Archivist.'

He blinked. 'For how long?'

'Five years, sir. Until today, that is.'

'See? That's the girl I entrusted with my receipts' - Madam Tombend pulled herself up short, and turned to Hermione. 'What do you mean, 'until today?'

'I've come to hand in my notice,' Hermione said. 'Effectively immediately, if you don't mind.'

Madam Tombend coughed and spluttered like the Hogwarts Express the morning after a particularly gnarly run up a steep and snowy mountain. 'Effective immediately, my wand! There's notice to be worked out! You have to train your replacement! This simply will not do!'

'Actually, I'm prepared to forgo up to half of my annual leave entitlement – that's six weeks, sir – in exchange for you letting me go right now. I have a new employment opportunity, and it starts tomorrow, due to extenuating circumstances.'

'RIDICULOUS!' Madam Tombend thundered. 'Tell her, Zeb. She's being ridiculous.'

The look Mr Asquith gave Madam Tombend would have made a Carolina Reaper chilli feel like a snowcone in one's mouth. 'It's 'Mr Asquith,' to you,' he snapped. 'And the Wizarding-Creature Union Collective Agreement clearly states that in cases of built-up leave, this is exactly what may be done.' He turned to Hermione. 'And why is it that you accumulated so much leave in the first place, young lady?'

Hermione nodded at Madam Tombend. 'She wouldn't let me take any leave, sir.'

Mr Asquith was aghast.

Madam Tombend looked like she was imagining exactly how it would feel to snap that uppity Miss Granger's scrawny neck in two.

Since it was clear that Madam Tombend wasn't in the mental space to issue the niceties, Mr Asquith cleared his throat. 'Well,' he stated pompously,'the Ministry is always sorry to lose such a hardworking employee. However, I wish you all the best in your future endeavours, and should you require a reference, you may contact' – he glanced at Madam Tombend, then changed his mind – 'my office.'

'Thank you very much, sir!' Hermione smiled. 'I take it you don't need me anymore?'

'W-w-what about my stolen receipts!' Madam Tombend honked indignantly. 'She can't get away with this! Framing me for her crimes!' She shook her finger at Hermione. 'You hussy!'

Hermione shouldered her handbag. 'Mr Asquith, you'll find Madam Tombend's receipts filed under 'Parmesan Cheese, Magical Uses For.' At least, that's where she normally hides things.'

And off she went, through the Archive doors for the last time.

Madam Tombend clutched her chest. 'Mr Asquith,' she gasped, 'I-I do believe I'm having a turn!'

Mr Asquith ignored her and sent his wand off to find the cheesy filing spot.

He opened it up, and his lean face took on quite hideous proportions as he scrunched it into something resembling a smile.

Thank you, Miss Granger, he thought, and made a note to have all, rather than half, of her outstanding leave paid out.

* * *

**Next morning **

**Ministry of Magic atrium **

It wasn't difficult to spot Malfoy, Hermione noticed as she entered the Ministry's atrium, this time with her carpetbag firmly clamped in her hand. If it wasn't the striking blonde hair, confident laugh and easy way in which he seemed to take up enough room for ten people, he wouldn't have been Malfoy without his support act of friends, well-wishers and looky-loos.

She'd sent an owl to the Potters, saying she was sorry to leave them in the lurch, but she'd been given the opportunity to travel the world in the employ of a man with more money than sense, so she rather thought she'd take that up.

She hadn't received any word back.

She squared her shoulders, and headed towards the Malfoy melee –

'Hermione? What the hell!'

Oh!

She turned around.

Harry was descending upon her like an eagle after his prey; that is, if eagles wore robes lopsidedly off one shoulder, with glasses perched precariously on their beaky noses and had thatches of black hair that looked like they were places where hairbrushes went to die.

'Hi, Harry,' she said. 'Nice of you to come and say goodbye.' Not to mention surprising.

He grabbed her by the arms. 'What do you think you're doing?' he gasped. 'You can't just gallivant off to the see the world! What about your job? Your flat?'

'Handed in my notice; and sub-let.'

He gaped her at her. 'But what about this rich man you're travelling with?' he demanded. 'Do you know anything about him? Is he safe? How did he make his money? Who's to say he's not going to slit your throat and leave you dying in a ditch in Naples?'

Hermione slung her thumb over her shoulder at the enclave of Slytherins. 'I'm travelling with Malfoy.'

Now it was Harry's turn to do an impression of a dying Timmy. 'Malfoy? You've got to be kidding me!' Then his face drained of colour. 'Omigod! Exactly what sort of work is he paying you for?'

Hermione looked at him oddly. 'I'm his secretary. He needs to do some work overseas for Malfoy Enterprises.'

'Oh.' Harry straightened his glasses on his nose. 'Well, that's slightly better than being his, um' –

'Whore?' Hermione asked archly. 'You thought I was selling myself to a man for money?'

'Uh-no! No, of course not!' Harry backpedalled, his ears pink.

They both looked at Malfoy. He was struggling to get out of the determined clutches of a skinny girl with smooth dark hair and red talons, who seemed determined to spread herself over as much of himself as possible.

'I don't think I'm his type,' Hermione replied neutrally. 'Please wish me well?'

Harry caught her in his warm embrace. 'Of course,' he said. 'I hope you have a wonderful time. And if you need help, anything at all' –

'I know,' Hermione sniffled. 'I'll Patronus you.'

They hugged again, then Hermione turned and walked towards her new life.

Harry watched her depart, a hand clutched in his hair. Ginny was going to be pissed...

Then he straightened his spine. His wife was just going to have find some other unpaid slave to bully.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in getting chapter 5 out. I had a bout of food poisoning, the least said about that the better; and I'm in the middle of getting tested for hypothyroidism, which generally makes me feel knackered, along with a shopping list's worth of other symptoms I won't bore you with. So, the inspiration to write disappears for a bit. But as soon as it pokes it head around the corner, I grab it by the throat and make the most of it.**

** Names and similar of Irish things have been changed for this chapter and others, but everything is based on real places and things. At least, they're real according to the internet. **

**I crave indulgence from my Irish readers, and I apologise for any errors. I'd love to visit one day; and I'd like to get through Customs without being detained by irate Harry Potter fanfiction-reading Customs Officers :)**

* * *

**Ministry of Magic Atrium**

Hermione's new life didn't start that well.

The black-haired girl saw Hermione approach first. Sizing up Hermione's drab trousers, shirt and hair that looked like it had been plaited, then electrocuted, she snarled "Who are you?"

Hermione replied in her professional secretary's voice. "Hermione Granger. Mr Malfoy's secretary. A pleasure to meet you."

Actually, it should have been 'A pleasure to see you again,' as Hermione recognised the smooth-haired girl with the spiky personality as Pansy Parkinson, Chief School Bully (female division). But since it wasn't a pleasure for Hermione to breathe Pansy's air, she figured she'd go the whole hog and lie.

Anyway, Zabini and Nott provided the most entertaining reaction to her presence and/or statement. After their jaws dropped, they laughed like hyenas, holding each other up for fear that they would laugh their arses down to the floor.

"A secretary?" Zabini gasped, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "What in the name of Salazar Slytherin do you need a sodding secretary for?"

"Especially one who looks like _that?"_ Nott chortled.

Hermione mentally removed the hyenas from her Christmas card list. Oh, wait. They weren't on there in the first place.

"She's your _secretary?"_ Pansy squawked with equal parts derision and envy. "But _I _could be your secretary!"

"Really?" Draco drawled. "I didn't know you could record verbatim notes of what every attendee says at meetings."

Pansy flapped that away. "I'm sure I could if I tried."

"Could you also keep my diary meticulously up-to-date to literally the last minute, run around after me, briefing me on what I need to know for my next meeting, organise and re-organise my life as I suddenly decide to go and play Quidditch instead of meeting with the most important wizarding and Muggle people of the planet, with all the necessary tact to ensure I haven't burned any important business bridges?" He turned to Hermione. "I tend to do that, you know," he admitted.

Hermione whipped out a magical notepad and quill from her bag. "Noted, Mr Malfoy."

By now, Pansy had re-thought her brief career in secretarianism. "Well, as a successful business-wizard, presumably you'll be attending posh dinners and special events and the like. Surely you don't want to look out of place by yourself, looking single and desperate? You need someone you can rely to accompany you as your plus one, to keep all those time-wasting, vapid, husband-trapping whores away from you!"

Draco, reluctantly admiring Pansy's enormous lack of irony and self-awareness, replied "Great idea! Miss Granger, can you accompany me as my plus one for certain evening events where necessary?"

Hermione made a note in the notebook. "Provided my schedule is free, Mr Malfoy. On occasions where I am unavailable and you've not had the time to meet a suitable companion, do you object to using high-end, discreet agencies where beautiful, highly-educated women attend social events as your escort?"

Draco stepped closer to Hermione. "Do they really exist?"

"In Muggle society."

Draco stared at Hermione in admiration, then swivelled to Zabini, Nott and Pansy. "A secretary that finds you women,' he said proudly. 'How many of your secretaries can do _that?"_

They were honestly lost for words.

* * *

**Ministry Portkey Pick-Up **

** "**Well, here it is!" Draco said, carefully unwrapping a small parcel to reveal a packet of Wrigley's Juicy Fruit chewing gum. "You'd better keep hold of this, Granger," he suggested. "I'll be bound to lose something this small in the first twenty minutes. And here" – he handed her a quill with a spell on it. "This is the charm to load the rest of our Portkey travel destinations on it."

Hermione scrutinised the parchment, and filed it in her notebook.

Draco paused. "Granger?"

Putting her notebook away, she looked up distractedly. "Yes?" she said, then almost shivered when she met his silver eyes. They were serious. Sir Guy of Gisbourne serious.

"You're absolutely sure about this?" he asked.

She eyeballed him back. "Absolutely."

"Fair enough," he replied, and held the Portkey between them. "Ready? One, two" –

They both touched the gum packet.

"THREE!"

* * *

**Republic of** **Ireland, somewhere in the middle of **

Hermione stumbled to the ground, but picked herself up promptly enough and looked around, entranced by the lush, dense green pastures and rolling hills, dotted with craggy, mossy rocks.

Draco's snigger caught her ear. "Nice landing, Granger," he snorted.

Colour heated her cheeks. "I don't portkey often," she snapped. Some of us never had destinations to portkey to before.

"Besides," she continued archly, "is that a patch of grass stain I see on the revered piece of Malfoy anatomy that is your arse?"

Now it was Draco's turn for colour to heighten his cheeks. He had, in fact, landed rather... well... oh, bollocks. He'd messed up his own landing but had hoped to keep it from Granger. Trust him to engage an observant secretary.

He zapped the offending grass stain away with his wand, then looked up to see Hermione looking at him expectantly. "What?"

Hermione frowned at him. "Where are we going?"

Ah! Draco rubbed his hands together in greedy expectation. "We're going to a posh Muggle country hotel," he said. "Malfoy Enterprises is thinking of branching out into luxury accommodation."

"Okay, so where is it?"

_"Where?"_ Draco raised an arch eyebrow. "My dear Ms Granger, I hired you to take care of the details. I'm a 'big picture' kind of guy."

Hermione boggled. "This is literally my first day! You were the one who made the arrangements for the first stop! Surely you must remember the name and address of the only destination you bothered to book before haring off on this wild scheme of yours!"

Draco felt a twinge of guilt, but he got over it. Sighing and patting his khaki trousers, he fished out a parchment and read from it. "Ballydool Manor, Ballydool, Co. Clare.' There! Happy?"

"County," Hermione said.

"Huh?"

"Co is short for 'County."

Draco put his hands on his hips and snarled "Are you trying to _teach_ me something, Granger?"

Hermione looked at his face and decided that discretion would be the better part of valour. She smiled inwardly, thinking of Maid Maron. "Uh, so, where is that from" –

Judging by the static electricity raising strands of his hair to attention, she swallowed the rest of the question and looked around their little patch of paradise.

Lush, dense green pastures and rolling hills, dotted with craggy, mossy rocks...

Lush, dense green pastures and rolling hills, dotted with craggy, mossy rocks...

Lush, dense green pastures and rolling hills, dotted with craggy, mossy rocks... oh, thank Godric, there was a road sign down the hill.

She headed down, not really caring if Malfoy was behind her or not. She pondered the sign, then fished a roadmap of Ireland out of her bag.

Draco, hovering over her shoulder, said "What's that?"

Ignoring him, she flicked through the pages until she found what she wanted. Slapping the atlas closed, she said "That is a book of directions telling us that Ballydool manor is that way." She pointed down the road.

"Brill." Draco set off with a spring in his step.

"Twenty-five miles that way."

Draco stopped and turned around.

"And so, how are we supposed to get there, then?" he demanded petulantly.

Hermione entertained herself for a few seconds, trying to imagine Malfoy thumbing a lift and climbing into the back of a pick-up truck that had just delivered its load of live chickens with bowel trouble. But, since he is paying her a salary, she relented. "There's a train station about one mile along," she said. "We'll catch a train to Ballydool village and head over from there."

Draco nodded smugly. "I was just about to suggest that."

Hermione felt a headache forming.

* * *

**A/N: That's all I can manage at the moment, folks. Back soon!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I probably haven't given Draco enough time to fall sleep on the train, given the distance, but that's the fun of fiction, right?**

* * *

**On the train **

Once they were settled in their seats on each side of a formica table, Hermione glared at Draco. "So, you don't have any Euros?"

Draco was the picture of the innocence. "I was going to exchange some!"

Hermione looked out of the window.

"You know I'm good for the money, Granger. I'll pay you back."

Hermione glared at him. "Exactly how much thought have you put into planning this trip of yours?"

He spread his arms. "I was going to exchange my Galleons at the Ministry, I swear!"

"You're avoiding the question!"

He leaned forward with his forearms on the table, his temper starting to fray.

"Look, I'll level with you, all right? " he snapped. "My entire life since before I was even conceived has been micro-managed by my parents. Presumably it's well-intentioned" – he paused and thought – "at least on my mother's part, anyway. But they've written out the rest of my life, down to the last full stop! Everything I do must contribute to the betterment of Malfoy Industries and the Malfoy family. I'm their only heir and only hope. So forgive me, Granger, if I want to take some time out for myself and do whatever I want – even if it's nothing at all – before I go back home. So, since you're so desperate to know the answer to your question, then no, I didn't plan much at all beyond getting the hell out of wizarding England."

He slumped back in his seat, scowling.

Wow, Hermione thought. An actual poor little rich boy.

"So, we're both escaping," she said softly.

He met her eyes. "I guess we are."

Hermione was the first to blink.

"Well, then," she said lightly, "you're lucky you have me to make sure your Bohemian travel methods don't result in you sleeping under a bridge in filthy clothes."

"Not filthy clothes!" Draco exclaimed in mock horror. "Anything but filthy clothes!"

Hermione smiled. At least Malfoy's got a sense of humour.

After all, things could be worse. Imagine travelling with the Potter family!

* * *

Shortly after, Draco thought he'd grab a quick kip. Stretching his arms, he perched himself in the corner between his seat and the window, and was out like a light.

Suspiciously, Hermione learned over and waved her hand in front of his face.

No response.

Despite herself, she was impressed. She'd give anything to fall asleep in seconds, but her brain needs time to run down to a complete stop.

Well, then. Looks like she could dedicate a bit more time to Maid Marian.

* * *

_"You've changed."_

_ Startled, Marian swivelled on her saddle, looking for the body-less voice. No matter how hard she tried, she never could happen upon Robin unawares. He was too good._

_ He materialised in front of her, holding her horse's reins with one hand and stretching out the other to help her down from the saddle. Were she wearing breeches, she would have ignored him and hopped down by herself, but today she didn't have time to change, and had to pretend she was out for a gentle trot through the forest in her day dress, using the much-despised side-saddle. _

_ Her cheeks pinkened a little. Also, to be honest, her body wasn't quite up to riding astride… _

_ Marian fell into step with Robin and her horse as they headed to the camp. "Is that all you have to say?" she demanded. "'You've changed?' How am I supposed to respond to such a general statement?"_

_ Yet inside, her heart thumped guiltily. Yes, she had changed. But there was no way anyone but Guy would know, right?_

_ Robin's lips quirked. "Certainly, your personality hasn't."_

_ She swatted him with her arm, then indicated her dress. "Is it my dress? My hair?"_

_ Finally, he laughed. "Nothing so obvious, certainly," he admitted. Then he stopped and ran his eyes slowly over her body. _

_ She did her best to repress a shiver; and his eyes flashed. _

_ "Perhaps I was mistaken," he finished lightly. _

_ Marian thought it best to let the matter drop._

* * *

_She exchanged written messages with Robin's men and collected up others that were to go back to town. She drank some ale and shared some food, careful not to take too much from their meagre supplies. She chatted with this man and that, smiling and laughing, but she was constantly aware of Robin's eyes on her, like a heavy winter cloak. _

_ Half an hour later, she stood up with regret. She needed to be back at the castle before she was missed. _

_Before Guy saw she was missing. _

_Robin stood up and said he'd walk her to the forest crossroads in a tone she knew better than to argue with._

* * *

_It was a silent walk for the most part; and very uncomfortable. Only the horse was carefree, thinking hopefully of his stable and dinner. _

_As the crossroads neared, Robin stopped. _

_Marian was slightly ahead, so she stopped and turned around. Daring him with her eyes to say his piece._

_He moved close to her. Almost surrounding her with his nearness. "I don't think I've ever told you how beautiful you are," he murmured. _

_She blushed. "I – ah… no, I don't think you have," she stuttered. "Thank you."_

_She concentrated on the rise and fall of his chest through his coarse shirt. His pulse was steady. She knew hers was all over the place. _

"_I don't intend to dwell in the forest for the rest of my life," he added._

"_Of course not! When the rightful King is restored, your lands will be returned and everything will be as it should be."_

"_And the Sheriff and Gisbourne will face justice."_

_She blew out a shaky breath.__Yes._

"_Robin, what are you getting at, exactly? You talk of things we both know well."_

_He tilted her chin up with his finger. The expression on his face was… inscrutable._

"_I can't offer you anything but death and danger, right now," he said. "But one day, I hope to offer you so much more."_

_He trailed off, and looked to the side for a moment before returning to her pale face. "Though I have no right, can I ask you to wait for me?" He paused, then continued. "Or am I too late?"_

_Marian swallowed. There is no way he could possibly know. _

_Anyway, just because Guy and I laid together doesn't mean he's going to be proffering engagement rings. _

_And even if he did, it doesn't mean I'd accept him._

_So she shoved Robin away. "If you're asking if I'm promised to another man," she said archly, "I'm happy to tell you I'm not. I'm not yours, nor am I anyone's."_

_She stalked towards her horse and gathered the reins. She looked up at her saddle and… realised she needed a leg up from the amused outlaw standing behind her. _

"_No one could contain you," he agreed. "Nor should they. It would be like trying to harness the sun."_

_She smiled. Robin knew her well._

"_So, then," he said, "until next time?"_

"_Until then," she replied, offering her cheek for his farewell kiss._

_Instead of complying, he took her hand in his, turning it over to expose her wrist. He lowered his head and applied his tongue to the sensitive skin before dropping a slow, deliberate kiss on her pulse that gently pulled at her skin._

_Which just skyrocketed to the moon. _

_Their eyes locked._

_Then he helped her onto her horse and tugged his forelock. "My lady," he smirked._

"_My lord," she shot back, before sending the horse on his path._

_She heard his laughter ripple through the leaves. _

* * *

Hermione lowered her book and studied her wrist. Could this innocuous part of her body really arouse such… arousal? She was rather sceptical, to be honest.

Anyway, looks like their stop is coming up. Stowing her book safely in her bag, she reached over the table and prodded Draco's arm. "Come on, sleepyhead! Your castle awaits!"

Draco opened one eye, then the other. "I'll have you know that I don't respond to 'sleepyhead,'" he drawled. "Usually I'm gently roused awake by a perfectly brewed cup of coffee from my elf. And he calls me 'Master.'"

Hermione burst out laughing, causing the scattered handful of passengers in the compartment to look over at the pair and wonder what the joke was.

"I wasn't joking!" he sniffed.

"I know!" Hermione chortled, and headed to the train doors.

Draco followed her, rolling his wheeled suitcase behind him (his luggage was transfigured on Hermione's suggestion).

His preferred method of being woken up was to have a pair of luscious lips forming themselves around his morning erection, but there was no way he was mentioning _that_ to Granger.

Maybe she's learning about fellatio in that ridiculous bonkbuster book of hers, he smirked.

* * *

**Ballydool Manor, in a piece of Irish paradise **

Hermione felt like a backwards child from the country as she and Draco taxied along the vast driveway to the Manor. It looked like one of the massive estates from _Pride and Prejudice_, a book (and TV series) she was intimately familiar with.

In fact, she if she closed her eyes, she could clearly see Elizabeth Darcy skipping over the manicured grass lawn with Mr Darcy's lurchers, both of whom she spoils terribly. Behind her, Mr Darcy himself walks his well- exercised horse, taking the long way to the stables at the rear of the property. A smile tugs his lips as he watches his once well-trained hounds roll around on the grass at his wife's feet. He was certain the servants would happily do so too, given half the chance.

Mrs Reynolds waits for the Mistress of Pemberly at the top of the stairs leading to the Manor's main entrance, trying to scold her for the state of her hems, but the Mistress's smile is contagious –

"Are you catching flies, Granger?" Draco demanded from the top of the stairs, where a helpful porter was attempting to relieve Draco of his burdensome suitcase. "Get a move on, woman!"

She ignored not-very-Mr-Darcy and took a proper butchers at her surroundings. In front of her stood a many-windowed, many-columned palatial dome dating back to the 18th century. A circular wrought iron and glass conservatory jutted out from one of the many, many wings. Behind her, what seemed like miles of manicured turf undulated out from the mansion like an emerald carpet, leading down a gentle slope a large, limpid lake. Large, leafy, willowy trees positioned themselves around the grounds. Everything shimmered in the sunshine.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she breathed.

Draco, who was, of course, used to the finer things in life, shrugged. "Yeah, it's not bad." He headed inside without waiting for Hermione to even climb the stairs, let alone let her enter the Manor first.

Definitely-not-Mr-Darcy, she amended silently.

* * *

**Ballydool's Reception **

A very-nicely suited, beaming gentleman greeted the witch and wizard (not that he knew, of course) to Ballydool Manor. His name was Eion and he was _so_ pleased to welcome Mr… hm?

"Malfoy," replied Draco.

"Ah, that's grand, Mr Malfoy! And, er, Ms…?"

"Granger," replied Hermione.

"Lovely!" Eion trilled. "Welcome to Ballydool Manor! I'm sure you'll be having the most lovely time here, so you will!"

He ushered them to an innocent-looking ornate wooden desk that was bare except for a beautiful antique vase of flowers – "from our gardens," Eion said proudly, while underneath the desk he fiddled with knobs and what not and pulled out a discreet shelf with a flat touch-screen monitor inlaid into the polished wood.

Draco's reservation was promptly called up, and Hermione was relieved to find he'd at least had the foresight to arm himself with a Muggle credit card, even if he had no cash to speak of. No way in hell could she cover the accommodation from her own meagre (by comparison) finances.

"That's all settled!" Eion gushed, motioning for a porter to step forward. "Padraig, please take this lovely young couple up to the Duke of Clerebold Suite," he beamed. Turning to Draco and Hermione, he added "This room was named after the famous Duke who used to stay here when Ballydool was a private residence! It has superb views to the west and south west of the lawns, conservatory, and from the bedroom you can catch a glimpse of the pleasure ground leading to the temple at the top of the water cascade!"

Hermione was impressed. Draco rather less so.

"RIghtio," Draco replied, collected his key card, turned and headed after the porter.

Hermione stayed where she was.

"Ms Granger!" Eion exclaimed, most alarmed, "is there anything at all I can help you with?"

Hermione smiled, then turned to the antique lifts (where Draco and the porter were headed) and hollered "Malfoy!"

Without pause, Draco swivelled on his heel and sashayed back to Eion and Hermione. "Ah, yes," Draco blustered, pretending that he hadn't forgotten that Hermione had no reservation, "this young lady is not, in fact, my significant other. She's my secretary, and will be requiring separate accommodations from myself for the duration of our stay."

Eion boggled at them.

"It's true," Hermione reassured him. "I am actually his secretary. He's in desperate need of one."

Draco scowled at her when Eion fished his fancy monitor out again.

"Oh, I do apologise most sincerely, Ms Granger!" The poor man looked quite stricken at having made the foolish assumption that two young people, alike in age, who obviously knew each other _and_ checking in to a hotel were not in fact going at it like rabbits. With each other, at least.

"Please don't worry, Eion," Hermione said reassuringly. "It was very much a last-minute arrangement. We are both very sorry to have troubled you."

(Just for the record, Draco did not look like he was sorry in the least.)

For a moment, it looked like Eion was about to enter into a 'Who's the more sorry?' competition with Hermione, but instead, he occupied himself finding himself another room for the young lady.

This was a most exclusive establishment, and rooms did not number into the hundreds. Or even the dozens. However, Saint Patrick must have taken time out from bashing a few snakes' heads together to lend a hand, since an appropriate room was discovered.

"It's much smaller than the Duke of Clerebold," Eion confessed sadly, summoning another porter. "But it interconnects to Mr Malfoy's room through a shared bathroom!" He beamed again, looking like he'd just won the Irish _Mastermind_.

"I'm sure it will be lovely," Hermione smiled. "Does it have a name, too?"

"Oh, yes!" Eion gushed. "It's called "The Study."

Hermione's eyes lit up.

Draco rolled his.

* * *

**The accommodation**

Hermione barely noticed the porter tip his hat and wish her a 'grand' day – she was captivated by the vast room she'd wandered into.

Firstly, she wondered if the Irish had a different measurement system in the Republic, because even though Eion informed her that The Study was small, it was certainly large enough to fit in a massive four-poster bed, plush settees and occasional tables, an ancient but obviously well-loved desk, two fireplaces, one on each side of the bed – well, they were Muggle-sized - but two, even so!

What else? A cute breakfast table before French windows that opened onto a wee balcony that overlooked the cook's garden down below (the scent of sun-warmed basil and mint drifted up to Hermione's nostrils, making her feel jolly hungry), and let's not forget the books that lined, floor to ceiling, nearly every spare space of wall the room had, aside from a few spare patches that held what she was sure were jolly expensive paintings.

Peeping into the bathroom, making sure it wasn't occupied by Malfoy first, she fell in love with the freestanding claw-foot bathtub and vowed to take it for a wineglass-drinking/book-reading test drive before any part of Malfoy's genitalia touched the enamel first and ruined the experience for her. The cabinetry was finished in paint-stressed timber, and surfaces held either cut-glass bottles of lovely-smelling things or small vases of lovely-smelling flowers.

She was peeking through the bathroom window to see what sort of views it had when Draco barged in from his room, without knocking, of course.

Hermione clucked irritably. "What if I was on the toilet?" she demanded.

"I hop you'd have the common sense to lock the interconnecting door," Draco pointed out.

"What if I forget?"

He rolled his eyes. "Then I'll cover my eyes at the sight of you sprawled upon the throne, scream 'IT BURNS! IT BURNS!' then dash back through my doorway, stopping only to lock it before pouring myself the first of a good number of stiff drinks in the hope that the sight I just witnessed will be forever erased from my mind."

Hermione's lips twitched with amusement, but she hid it behind a pretend offended sniff. "A simple 'Pardon me' and withdrawal to your room will suffice."

Draco bowed low. "I'll do my best to remember, Ma'am."

"See that you do."

Draco laughed.

"Well, what's your room like, then?" he demanded, and sailed through her connecting door as if he owned the bloody place. Hermione tried to tamp back her irritation at his largesse. Her heart was starting to feel some strain.

She entered her room to find Draco standing in the middle of it, hands on his hips. He nodded with satisfaction. "It is much smaller than mine," he said with satisfaction.

Hermione looked up from searching through her bag. "Is everything a competition with you?" she asked. "Seriously."

"It is if I win," Draco winked. Then he noticed her pinched face and added "But this room far outscores mine in the book department."

Hermione found her medicine and took a sip before slipping the bottle in her pocket, knowing he was watching, but still keeping his word. "Thank you, Malfoy," she replied. "I'll try my hardest not to rub it in too much."

"Hmm, that aroma from outside is divine!" Draco said. "Surely it must be lunchtime?"

"I expect you're right," she replied. "Let's check out the Dining Room!"

"Lead on," he said, letting Hermione leave the room first.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for all your kind thoughts and wishes!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: for this chapter:**

***assume that Draco and Hermione had let their lunches properly digest before they went swimming; **

***I'm not sure if PETA covers lobsters; **

***the Irish word I used for whiskey could mean 'hula hoop' for all I know (didn't fact check it very well); and**

***FIRST LEMON! (But not Dramione, please don't kill me xxx)**

* * *

**Afternoon**

**The Duke of Clerebold's Sitting Room**

"Granger," Draco said, lolling lazily across a chintz settee, "we need to have a meeting."

Granger, for once, wasn't listening. She was too busy exploring Draco's suite of rooms. He didn't just have a sumptuous bedroom with obligatory four-poster, he had a connecting sitting room with plush settees, a discreet kitchenette and massive flat-screen TV that practically took over one wall.

She drifted from the bedroom to the parlour, where Draco was ensconced, digesting his lunchtime Irish smoked salmon and crab roulade and flicking through a brochure about the Manor.

"Pardon?" Hermione asked vaguely, admiring the view from one of his suite's multiple windows.

"A meeting," Draco repeated. "We need to have a meeting."

"Oh," she murmured. Then: "Oh! I'll get my notebook" –

"I doubt it will be of much use where we're going." He tossed the brochure to Hermione, who only just caught it. "We're going to the indoor pool."

With that, he stood up and sauntered into his bedroom, closing the enormous double doors.

Hermione gaped at them. "Oh, no, we're not!" she called out.

"Oh, yes, we are!" came the response from the other side.

Grumbling, Hermione made to head to her bedroom via the bathroom – belatedly realising her way was blocked by the doors. "Malfoy!" she called again. "I need to get the bathroom!"

"It's unlocked!" he called back. But just as she put her hand on the knob, he added "But you should know that I'm currently naked!"

Hermione snatched her hand back as if it had been burned. Poking her tongue out at the door, she stomped out of the sitting room, giving the door a most satisfactory slam on the way out.

* * *

**Indoor pool **

Draco (attired in swim shorts) gazed upon the pristine waters of the venue's fourteen-metre heated swimming pool with satisfaction, then dove in, barely making a splash on the glass-like surface.

He swam underwater for the length of the pool before resurfacing at the other end, whipping his wet blond locks back.

"Ahh, now that's the stuff!" he declared with satisfaction.

Hermione was primly perched on the edge of a cushioned long deck chair, arms crossed, glaring at him while trying not to obviously gape at his toned and chiselled bare (and wet) chest.

"Where's your swimsuit?" Draco demanded.

"I don't have one," she sniffed.

Draco made sure they were the only ones in pool room (where not even this room escaped the gold _trompe l'oeil _decor that seemed to be a recurring theme of the Manor. At least the floor-to-ceiling timber-framed windows looked out onto the cook's garden, providing plenty of light.)

Anyway, as no-one else was afoot, he leaned back against the pool's edge and said "Well, transfigure something."

"Why should I?" Hermione demanded, affronted.

Draco raised his hand and commanded a sizeable water bubble from the pool's supply, then sent it over at speed to Hermione, where the force of the splash laid her out flat on her back.

As she screeched in outrage, Draco said "Because I'm your boss and I say so. That's why."

Steam practically poured from her ears, but he was right, damn it. Instantly drying herself with her wand, she turned on her heel and stormed off.

Draco stared after her. That wet shirt of Hermione's didn't leave much to the imagination. Even her nipples poked through her shirt and bra as if they were demanding to speak to the manager.

He'd best do a few laps until his libido cooled down.

* * *

**The Study **

Grinding her teeth, Hermione stood before her full-length bedroom mirror and glared at herself in her bra and panties. Gripping her wand, she took a breath and prepared to transfigure her smalls into a bikini.

Which she'd have to wear in front of Malfoy.

With his seriously hot and annoying body.

She looked down at her skinny white limbs.

Nah. That ain't gonna happen.

She crossed to the wardrobe and took out a black work shirt. Ditching the bra and shrugging the shirt on, she faced the mirror and applied the magic.

* * *

**Indoor pool (again)**

Draco was feeling nice and zen when his secretary slunk back into the pool room. Picking a deck chair that was as far away from the pool as possible, she removed her outer clothes, revealing the rear view of her transfigured one-piece.

Draco's mouth went dry.

She turned around and walked to the far edge of the pool. With hands on her hips, she snapped "Well? Is this suitable enough for his lordship and Majesty?"

Well, the erection threatening to escape from his swim shorts was pretty happy.

She wore a black one-piece swimsuit with a clever series of narrow striped bands around her waist, some of which were transparent. The banded stripes crossed over at the bust and formed the swimsuit straps. It was both modest and _so_ goddamn sexy.

Thank Merlin her hair still looked like she'd stuck her finger in an electrical socket.

Draco nodded politely. "You look lovely," he said neutrally. "Can you swim?"

"Yes."

"Good. Get in."

Sighing, Hermione dove into the water.

As she swam underwater, Draco took the opportunity to give his cock a stern talking-to.

She surfaced near him, squeezing the water from her hair. Now that it looked under control, Draco gazed at the water droplets on her face, beading on her full lips, and eyelashes, and –

Realised he _desperately _needed to get laid.

But not with Hermione. For all sorts of reasons. Chief among them, he was prepared to bet his fortune that she was a virgin.

But more importantly than that... was sex even safe for her?

He promised not to talk about her condition. But he didn't promise to not think about it.

* * *

Their meeting concluded, Draco swam some more laps (necessity being the mother of invention) while Hermione floated on her back and closed her eyes, trying to think of nothing (which, of course, she couldn't do). But it was nice to relax.

It was also nice of Draco to suggest this place. She supposed.

Draco returned to her part of the pool. "What are you going to do this afternoon?" he asked.

"Oh, I might go for a walk around the grounds," Hermione replied. "Maybe check out the waterfall. You?"

"Whiskey tasting in the bar!" he said with satisfaction.

Hermione smiled. "Sounds right up your alley," she said, remembering the time she watched him and his mates put away all that alcohol in the Diagon Alley cafe/bar. "See you at dinner, then?"

"Yup. But I think I'll... do a few more laps, first."

"Rightio." Unawares, Hermione swam to the pool edge and pulled herself out.

Draco stifled a moan.

Make that a few dozen more laps...

* * *

**The Ballydool Bar **

While Hermione jaunted around the Manor's immense grounds, Draco showered, changed into trousers and a shirt that both screamed out 'I'm casual, but fucking expensive!' and headed down to the bar, which he learned from the manor brochure, once was the servants' quarters.

This didn't thrill him. He had no idea where the elves lived both at Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor, and wasn't inclined to expand his horizons today.

But when he entered the bar, the only remnant of the servants' abode was the rather low arched ceiling. Everything else looked posh and oddly modern, with the predominant colours of the long room being black, red and... pink? The room's only other inhabitant, an old gent in a cloth cap, tweed suit and gnarled timber cane, neither acknowledged Malfoy's presence or commented on the decor, because he was snoring on a comfy settee.

As he gingerly eased into a pink padded barstool, a lovely young lass with long, brown corkscrew curls and startling green eyes stepped into the bar through a side door. Her eyes lit up at having someone else to serve other than stalwart local Farmer MacCleary, he of the resounding adenoids on the settee.

"Welcome, sir, to the Ballydool Bar!" was her greeting, in a lilting, musical accent that had Draco's underwear tightening. "I'm Brigid, and how may I be serving you this fine afternoon?"

Draco smiled, running a fast and practiced eye over Brigid's body (that which he could see). Brilliant eyes, full rosy lips, high, perky breasts, narrow waist – oh, yes...

"Draco Malfoy," he replied, putting himself on best display. "Duke of Clarebold's suite, for billing purposes." One of his more subtle moves to let the lass know what room he resided in, he thought.

"Ooh!" Brigid winked. "Planning to spend a bit of money, are ya?"

"That remains to be seen," Draco said slyly. "I hear you give whiskey tastings?"

"That we do, sir!" Brigid said proudly. "Are you a fan of the _usquebaugh_, then?"

Draco looked blank. "I'm not sure."

Brigid laughed, and her face lit up the room. "It's Irish! Means 'water of life,' which, of course, that's what whiskey is, right?"

Draco smiled slowly. "Will you teach me a few Irish words along with my whiskey tasting?"

Brigid laughed again. "Ah, Mr Malfoy, ya couldn't afford my rates!"

This time, Draco's smile was full. "Please call me Draco."

* * *

**Dinner **

After Hermione got back from her bracing walk around the tiny part of the estate she managed to get around, she quickly showered and met Draco for dinner in the sumptuous dining room.

"You look remarkably perky," she commented as she sat down opposite Draco. "How much whiskey did you knock back?"

"Hmm?" Draco seemed a little distracted. "Dunno, but it was bloody nice." He opened up the menu and perused it. "What looks good to you? I'm thinking about the lobster."

Hermione sniffed in disapproval. "You would. It's barbaric to eat lobster."

Draco checked his watch, which he only wore when pretending to be a Muggle. "Why's that?"

"Because they're sitting in a cramped tank in the kitchen, still alive," Hermione snapped, _sotto voce_. "You have to go in and select the one you want to eat."

Draco brightened. "I do?"

"Yes, then they kill the poor thing, just so you can be a total lobster-killing glutton!"

Draco clapped his hands together. "That sounds awesome! Thanks so much for the recommendation, Granger!"

Hermione's mouth fell open.

After the pair managed to get through their main and dessert without Hermione phoning PETA or staging a one-witch protest, she noticed that Draco was visibly flagging. He couldn't stop yawning (behind his hand, he's a well-raised boy) and his hair was become rather mussed from the hand he kept running through it.

"More wine?" she proffered a bottle of an excellent vintage.

"No, thank you, I won't be able to do it justice," Draco mumbled. "Crikey, all those pool laps, whisky and that beautiful lobster" – Hermione glared at him – "has wiped me out. I'm for an early night, I'm afraid. But I would like to reconvene tomorrow morning. We should think about whether there's anything at Ballydool that might be useful for a Malfoy industries business venture."

"Okay," she said, sitting up straight. "I'll jot some ideas down tonight" –

"_Tomorrow,_ Granger," Draco said gently, standing up. "It'll keep. Just relax tonight, all right?"

Just as Hermione was pondering this un-boss-like advice, he leaned down, and as was his habit with ladies of his acquaintance – lover or no - gently kissed her cheek.

Her eyes widened in shock.

"'Night, Granger," he murmured, and disappeared.

Her cheek tingled for a long time afterward.

* * *

**Next morning **

**The Study **

Early next morning, Hermione sat up in bed with her notebook and quill and brainstormed about potential business ideas. It was a bit difficult, as they hadn't experienced all the activities yet, but she managed to squeeze a few bullet points out for consideration.

Showering, then dressing, Hermione checked the time. Half-past seven. That was a reasonable time to drag Malfoy's carcass out of bed, right?

Right. She'll go wake him, then they'll have breakfast, then they could work out a plan of attack.

She entered the bathroom, recognising the faint shimmer of magic around his connecting door. A silencing spell. She smiled. Wasn't that considerate of him? Maybe he snores like a pride of lions when he's really tired?

She knocked briskly on the locked door, then poked her head around it. "Malfoy? Time to get – oh, SHIT!"

For as Hermione discovered, Malfoy did not require awakening. In fact, it looked like he'd been awake a wee while, occupying himself most industriously -

By fucking some curly-haired, green-eyed random woman upright from behind while she gripped one of the bed's posters, wailing in the throes of orgasm while Draco, droplets of sweat beading his back and biceps and darkening his hair, gripped the woman's hips and thrust his cock repeatedly in and out of her...

... arse?

Both Draco and the woman stopped and stared at Hermione.

"Omigod I'm so sorry!" Hermione babbled, frantically ducking back behind the door. Her cheeks as red as roses, she fled through the bathroom, locking her connecting door, then threw up every locking spell she could think of to reinforce it. Then she collapsed onto the bed, curled up around a plump pillow, then –

Laughed hysterically.

* * *

**Twenty minutes later**

**The Study**

Knocks at the interconnecting door.

"Granger."

She ignored him.

Her _arse?_

The knocks continued.

"Granger."

She could never look him in the eye again, knowing what he kept in his pants! And it was incredibly impressive, as far as she knew. She wasn't exactly a cock connoisseur.

More knocking.

"Granger."

Hermione covered her ears with her hands. "Stop thinking about his cock!" she lectured herself. To no avail.

Yet more knocking, and what sounded like the thump of a weary head leaning against the door. "Hermione. Please let me in."

She stared at the door. Hermione?

Slowly, she took her wand and removed the spells. Shuffling to the door, she turned the knob and walked to the French door.

She heard him enter and close the door. She braced herself for anything he had to throw at her – abuse, pillows, her stupid notebook – but once again, he surprised her.

"Would it be fair to say you might be more embarrassed than I am?" he asked gently.

She blew out some air, fogging a patch of the French door. "I'm monumentally sorry for bursting in on you and your lady friend like that," she mumbled.

Draco's lips quirked. _Lady friend?_

"And yes," she continued, "I'm as embarrassed as hell. It's entirely possible I may never be able to look at you again."

Again, he surprised her. "It's no big deal, though."

What? Hermione almost turned around, but caught herself in time.

"I was just surprised to see you, considering I'd locked the door."

She was smart enough to recognise the dig. "Oh, gods," she moaned, closing her eyes. "I am such a hypocrite!"

Now Draco laughed – a merry chuckle, nothing snide or sarcastic. "How did you get through seven years of boarding school without being comfortable in your own skin?" he asked. "Dozens of people have seen me bare-arse naked. No big deal."

Please don't mention 'arse,' Hermione muttered in her head.

"I had my ways," she mumbled.

Draco let the matter drop. "Anyway, I hope you weren't offended by the, er, position we'd adopted when you saw us?"

This time, Hermione twitched her head to peek at him. No cynical grin on his face. Just a mix of curiosity and… concern?

"No, um… no," she replied.

"Cool," he acknowledged. "Some aren't that into it, you see."

Hermione tried to nod like she knew what he was on about.

"Are we still good?" he asked.

Defeated, she nodded.

"You need to face me and tell me before I'll accept it, Granger." Now the smirk was back.

She took a breath and faced him, knowing her cheeks were fire-engine red. "Yes," she wobbled.

"Excellent!" Rubbing his hands, Draco made his way to the door. "Breakfast time. I'm famished!"

Reckoning that her courage (ha) would shortly leave her, she asked "Were you and your friend able to… um… brush it off, as it were?"

"Uh, no," he replied with a tinge of regret. "She got a bit spooked. She's an employee of the Manor, and it's not good for her if she gets caught with a guest."

Hermione flinched. Oh, wonderful. Not only had she – what's the phrase Ginny uses? – cock-blocked? - her boss, she'd scared the living daylights out of his lover.

Slumping, she followed a seemingly unconcerned Draco out the door. She felt like a hundred different types of shit.

Especially since Draco was being such a good sport about it.

* * *

**A/N: Dramione bodies have been mutually acknowledged... we're on the way! Also, Draco the gentleman - yay or nay for you?**


	8. Chapter 8

** A/N: Many grateful thanks for your patience in waiting for the next chapter of this story. I hope your anticipation is aptly rewarded by this offering.**

** Thank you to those who supported me during my bout of blech health. I'm not out of the woods, but I think that's light I see at the end of the tunnel...**

** Two real life events provided the inspiration for this chapter:**

** Years ago I worked with a high-maintenance person who, it was fair to say, had ideas that transcended her current career choice (administration). When we moved from a site that offered parking to a site where free parking was a two-minute walk away, she loudly proclaimed "I'm not wearing out good shoe leather walking from my car to work!"**

** The second inspiration comes from me reading far too many instances of r/entitledparents than is good for me.**

** Enjoy!**

* * *

**A few days later **

**Over afternoon tea in Draco's sitting room:**

"How did you find the golf?" Hermione asked.

Draco elaborately rolled his eyes. "Games are supposed to be fun and entertaining, right?"

Hermione, who hadn't indulged in games since she was a tiny girl, shrugged. "Seems logical."

"And sports would generally require one to expend energy and work up a sweat, presumably?"

"Presumably."

Draco thumped the table, making the tea service rattle. "Then I put it to you that golf is neither a game nor a sport, it is simply an agonisingly boring waste of time!"

Hermione jotted down some notes in her notebook. "So, golf isn't your thing, and possibly not the thing for the rest of the wizarding population?"

"Why on earth would it be my thing when, instead of gracefully flying over long distances on a broom, I have to wear out good shoe leather traipsing over miles of turf and sand and whatnot in pursuit of a ball the same size as a snitch, but in all other aspects is completely inanimate?"

Hermione grinned. "You lost the game, didn't you?"

"Bah!" Draco spat.

And no more was said on the matter. Despite Hermione's best efforts.

* * *

However, falconry was a topic that Draco could wax lyrically on. Ah, yes - the sleek form, magnificent haughty silhouette, aerodynamic superiority – and this is just Draco we're talking about.

Needless to say, Draco and falconing went together like a – well, a horse and carriage.

Draco was a little disappointed that he and the other participants weren't going to send their feathered charges off to stalk and slaughter innocent creatures who never knew, when they got out of bed that morning, that they were destined to become a falcon's lunch, but it was still mightily exhilarating to watch the birds swoop, dive and soar through the air – and, for Draco, completely understanding what that felt like.

He missed his broom.

Draco's falcon seemed to sense a kindred spirit in him, and therefore sent the falconer into a fit of conniptions when it winked a beady eye at Draco, took off from his sturdy, elbow-length leather glove, and snatched a random, plump-breasted bird out of the sky. Ignoring the falconer's agitated commands to drop the damn thing, the falcon drifted back to earth at Draco's feet and set about filleting its catch with its beak and claws, right in front of the horrified and fascinated observers (Draco was fascinated; everyone else was horrified).

* * *

As Hermione rather distastefully chronicled Draco's enthusiastic description of the encounter, he poured himself another cup of tea, took a sip, grimaced and warmed it with his wand. "So," he said, "how did you go?"

With doubts and misgivings, Hermione took a masterclass in confectionery-making by the restaurant's exuberant French patisserie chef. She wasn't exactly the type of cook that devoured cookbooks like they were raunchy novels, nor aspired to dazzle her many nonexistent friends with complicated, multi-course banquets, accompanied by matching wines. She was more of a 'toast a bagel, slap on some cream cheese and a couple of slices of smoked salmon' kind of cook. And that was only when she felt like splurging.

However, under the tutelage of her flamboyant tutor, she discovered that confectionery-making was quite the science, requiring exact measures of ingredients and exact temperatures for cooking. And since she was quite the swot at Potions, she found herself creating a perfect Bailey's-infused fudge – velvety rich and the colour of dark caramel – augmented with a few crushed freeze-dried basil leaves on top. The chef went into raptures when he tasted it, comparing its colour with that of her eyes, which she privately thought was going a bit overboard.

Knowing Draco's fondness for sweets from their times together at the restaurant, and his penchant for self-centredness (which she'd known about for ages), she hid the leftover fudge in her room, guiltily helping herself to one or two pieces when he wasn't around. Her mouth watered just thinking of them.

"So," Draco demanded, "where is it?"

Hermione blinked. "Uh, where is what?"

"The leftover fudge, of course! Surely you made enough to take back and share with your bosom buddy?"

"You can stay away from my bosom, thank you."

Draco leaned forward, a falcon-like glint in his eye. "Come on, Granger," he cajoled, "all I'm asking for is one piece. One teensy, weensy piece."

Her resolve nearly cracked, but she rallied and stood firm. "I don't have anything, Malfoy! If you want some fudge, take the class and make it yourself!"

Draco sat back in his chair, but his silver gaze never left her.

Hermione shivered. He could probably have given the Spanish Inquisitors a lesson or two.

* * *

But if confectionery-making was a success for Hermione, archery was infinitely more so. Draco frowned when he watched Hermione's face morph into the same expression she had on her face when reading her smutty book.

The rest of the archery class seemed to comprise of family groups with tween daughters. Robbie, the cute young archery tutor, patiently explained all the safety rules and basic information prior to starting the lesson amidst the excited chit-chat from the girls and bored yawns of the parents who were checking their phones. Consequently, Hermione was the sole guest who actually managed to hit her target, compared with the other girls whose bows twanged with failure after (sometimes potentially dangerous) failure.

Robbie watched her shots, and stepped up to offer some technical advice.

"And are you here because you watched _The Hunger Games_, like the other young ladies?" he asked cheerfully.

Hermione stared at him, befuddled. "I'm not sure what _The Hunger Games_ is, to be honest," she confessed.

Robbie laughed. "Lord be praised!" he said in an undertone. He added "Not that I'm not grateful for the _Hunger Games _franchise, it's doing grand things for my business, but I'm feckin' sick of these spoiled princess types who turn up, expecting to pick up a bow and become a world champion archer after thirty seconds."

As if on cue, one of the tweens threw her (actually Robbie's) bow down on the grass and stamped her inappropriately-shod foot (platform wedges) in disgust. "It's too haaaaaaarrrrrrrd, Daddy!" she moaned, working up her bottom lip for an epic pout.

Hermione felt Robbie's quiet sigh of exasperation ruffle her curls.

Daddy barely looked up from his phone (he was on a winning hand in an online Texas Hold'em game). "You won't get better if you don't practice, darling," he replied distantly.

"DAAAAAAADDDDDDDDY!"

The tween's mother paused in her self-gratifying monologue to one of the dowdier mothers, and thrust out her recently-enhanced double-E breasts in indignation. "Don't worry, darling, Mummy will fix it," she crooned to the sulking tween. She scanned the area for Robbie. "You there! Archer boy!" she commanded imperiously.

Hermione's mouth fell open, but Robbie winked at her before turning around. "Is it me you're after, Mrs Hootenanny?" he said cheerily.

Mummy rolled her eyes. "Well, who else would it be, you silly boy?" she snapped. "There's something wrong with my daughter's bow. It's obviously broken."

Robbie strolled over to where his abused bow lay among the grass. Picking it up, he inspected it for the damage that could have been caused by the entitled little bitch's tantrum. Luckily, nothing was amiss.

"So, Miss Hootenanny, what seems to be the trouble with it?"

Miss Hootenanny stamped her foot once more, narrowly avoiding an ankle sprain. "It's too haaaaaaarrrrrrrd!" she whined eloquently.

Robbie rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then looked like he'd just had an extraordinary idea. "I know!" he said. "I have a very special bow that I hardly ever let anyone use, but its functionality is very easy to master. Would you like to try that one?"

The tween, whose eyes gleamed at the words "very special" said "Yes, I want that one!"

Robbie nodded deferentially to her. "As you wish," he murmured, then disappeared off to his monster Jeep.

Tween's mother nodded in satisfaction, put away her double-Es and plonked her arse back on her Gucci travel blanket.

Daddy lost €5,000 on the poker.

Shortly, Robbie headed back to the archers, clutching something in a long black canvas bag.

"Now then!" he declared to the impatient tween. "Here is my very special bow with easy-to-master functionality. Are you ready?"

"Yeah, duh," she spat, eyes rolling every which way.

"Well, without further ado..." Robbie unzipped the bag and pulled out...

... a child's Robin Hood bow and arrow set.

The archery party hooted with laughter – save for Tween, Mummy and Daddy Hootenanny (although Daddy was just pissed that he'd lost the next month's retainer he'd set aside to pay his mistress in London).

Tween snapped first. "What the hell sort of sick joke is this?" she shrieked, throwing the dinky items at Robbie's chest. They clattered to the grass. "You fucking Paddy!"

Robbie's eyebrows raised at the swearword and racial slur. "I've produced what I promised, do you not agree?"

Miss Tween, who had more hairspray in her hair than brains in her skull, flapped her lips open and shut like a fish.

"C'mon, c'mon, gimme an ace," Daddy muttered, clutching his phone. "Why is the wi-fi so shit around here?"

Mummy H soared up from her Gucci. "How dare you!" she thundered, pointing a shellacked talon straight at Robbie's heart. "I know what your plan is!"

"My plan?" Robbie asked innocently.

"Yes!" Mummy spat. "You just want to get her alone to – to – rape her! Don't you deny it, you nasty pedo!"

The group was torn between shocked gasps and shrieking with laughter. Hermione's wand hand was twitching with forcing back the need to grab her wand and hex that stupid bitch bald. And back down to an A-cup.

But Robbie had it all under control. His face morphed from cheerful chap to implacable cop. "Mrs Hootenanny," he snapped, "please collect your family and return to the manor. Immediately."

"I will not" –

"Oh, just take your spoiled brat and oblivious husband and get outta here!" heckled another parent, who was filming the whole thing.

His sage advice was quickly added to by the other parents, building to a crescendo.

Face flaming, Daddy finally put his phone down and dragged his dependants away.

* * *

Eventually, all the other tweens lost interest in archery, deeming it "boring," and drifted away, leaving Hermione and Robbie alone.

Her cheeks grew rosier with each target she met... with each step Robbie took towards her... and with each praise he endowed her with.

"Well, I think we're done," Robbie said at the end of the lesson.

"Would you like some help packing up?" Hermione asked, tracing patterns in the grass with her toe.

Robbie paused, then smiled. "Well, if you don't mind, how about we grab lunch in the village pub? They do a grand fish n' chips."

Hermione's face turned beet red, to her chagrin. But she shyly said yes.

* * *

Draco listened to Hermione's much pared-back description of the archery lesson, which, he had to admit, sounded pretty cool. But the rather fetching rose colour tinting Hermione's cheeks got his dander up in a way he didn't want to address at this particular moment, no thank you, sir.

He narrowed his naturally-sleek eyebrows. "And what happened next?"

Hermione studied the elaborate light feature dangling from the ceiling of the room. "We had lunch."

"Where?" Draco demanded darkly.

"Just a pub in dmslkbk..." she finished uncertainly.

Draco sniffed. "And is there something I should know about this gentleman?"

Hermione screwed up her nose. "Um, what?"

"Does he have... INTENTIONS... towards you?" Draco was practically a breath away from her.

"Well, we swapped email addresses, if that's what you mean."

Draco wasn't sure what that meant. But he didn't like it! No, sirree bob.

Anyway...

"So," Draco huffed, dreaming of a whiskey, "is there anything worthy of utilising for an upper-class hotel for occupancy by rich wizards and witches?"

Hermione tapped the quill against her lip as she thought.

Draco rather wished she wouldn't. Much too distracting.

She stood up. "Come with me," she said, holding out her hand. "There's something I've yet to show you."

Intrigued, Draco did as she bade.

* * *

Hermione escorted him through the Manor's beautiful, floor-to-ceiling (and the ceiling was a long way up) library. Draco had to clear his throat pointedly a number of times before Hermione noticed his fizzing visage and directed him through a secret entrance to the Costumery.

The Costumery was a treasure trove of dresses, uniforms and menswear that harked back to the 18th century. For those that were lacking in the hair department, many wigs and accessories were on display for guests to choose from. The Manor put on elaborate dinners with many courses from the era, and one could have one's photograph taken, in costume, at any place on the Manor grounds where one wished to prance.

Draco stared at this frippery with growing horror. "Look, Granger," he stammered, "I don't do dress-up. That's a hard no from me."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "These costumes were the inspiration for an idea I had," she said witheringly. "Do you think there's a market for the wizarding world to stay for a week or so in a place where you could pretend you were a Muggle from this era? It's not too different from high wizarding society now. Except instead of having human or squib servants, we could use elves."

Draco paced the room, fighting off encroaching feather boas, deep in thought. Then he raised his head.

"I think the idea has merit," he said slowly. "Can you write a paper worthy of convincing my father?"

Hermione puffed out her chest with importance. "I'll do my absolute best."

* * *

**That evening**

"Well, it's time to choose our next destination," Draco declared, spinning a globe mid-air in his sitting room. "I chose the first destination, so this time, it's ladies' choice."

Hermione blushed. "Really?"

"Of course," Draco bowed. "Pick a place. Any place!"

Hermione paced slowly around the spinning globe. "I think..." she blushed – "Paris?"

"Is that your final answer?"

She giggled. "Yes!"

Draco vanished the globe, and picked up two glasses of wine. Handing one to Hermione, they clinked glasses.

"To Paris!"


	9. Chapter 9

Ah, Paris! The City of Lights... the City of Romance... the city where it would be nearly impossible to cram in all its splendorous sights, sounds and smells into a mere few days.

What would she visit? Hermione wondered giddily, shortly after Flooing into Hôtel Coulomb, Paris's finest wizarding accommodation. The Lourve? Without doubt. And definitely the Eiffel Tower. Oh! And also Les Bouquinistes, the collection of second-hand and antiquarian booksellers whose boxed stalls meandered along either side of the Seine.

She'd best go to those booksellers by herself, Hermione mused. She doubted Malfoy had voluntarily opened a book since he left Hogwarts.

And let's not forget the Cathédrale Notre-

"Bugger."

Startled, Hermione pulled her head out of the clouds and stared at her boss, who, in turn, was glowering at a small parchment the Front Desk Witch had handed to him.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

Draco sighed and passed her the note.

"Mother miraculously found out we were in Paris, and she's 'reminded' me there's a Wizarding Embassy function tonight, and that I really, really, _really_ should attend and meet the legion of eligible young witches who will be in attendance."

Hermione scanned the note and raised her eyebrows. It was a couple of exclamation points short of a Howler.

She gritted her teeth. Finding a Muggle escort for him was out of the question. "Do you want me to accompany you?" she growled as politely as she was able to.

Draco glanced pointedly at the Front Desk Witch, who suddenly remembered she had something else to do. Draco took Hermione's elbow and steered her to a quieter part of the opulent lobby. Once there, he cast a silencing spell and narrowed his grey gaze at her. "Do you want to accompany me?" he countered.

Damn and blast him! Hermione muttered to herself. Just lobs the ball back in my court and I can't tell a damn thing from his poker face!

She tried to copy his face. "I agreed that I would accompany you on evening events if my schedule was free and, assuming, if you required me," she replied formally. "Do you require this of me?"

"Are you free this evening?" he lobbed back.

She threw up her hands in exasperation. "We only just arrived!" she said hotly. "How could I possibly have made plans for the night?" Her chest was starting to feel tight.

It seemed that Draco was finding this circling around each other's wagons tedious, too. Sighing, he pushed a hand through his hair and said "Granger, you're under no obligation to attend this function with me, but I would really appreciate your company as my companion. You would provide immense assistance, and I honestly believe we'll have a good time together."

The words were courteous, even if the utterer looked like he was biting down on the urge to reel off a few profanities. Even so, his eyes were honest and... could they be... pleading?

Hermione's own gaze dropped to the multi-patterned wooden floor. "I don't have a proper dress," she mumbled.

Somewhere above her came the reply "That can be easily solved."

She shrugged in acknowledgement. "But there's also my..." she trailed off.

"Your what, now?"

She sighed and glared at Draco. "My hair! A dress won't do me any good if my hair looks like a badly-maintained, anaemic-looking Afro."

Draco, not knowing what an Afro was, let alone and anaemic one, shrugged amiably and said "That can also be easily solved."

Hermione looked at him doubtfully.

"So... you'll come?" he asked.

Hermione nodded. "I'll come."

After all, this was her year of living dangerously, wasn't it? The year where she tried new things? Also, spending time around Malfoy and his perfect head of hair did make her wistfully wonder, once or twice, what a multi-Galleon hairstyle would look like perched on top of her own head...

At her words, Draco smiled.

It was a corker.

* * *

The nosy Front Desk Witch recommended a top wizarding salon, and sent an urgent message whittling through the Floo that an important (i.e. rich) client was on its way.

Upon Draco and Hermione's arrival at the salon, the Receptionist witch joyfully greeted the handsome young man and –

\- upon casting her eyes on the young witch, promptly shrieked and fell in a dead faint to the floor.

* * *

The salon's Madame, thankfully, was made of sterner stuff. Hustling up to Reception to see what in Godric's name was going on, she apologised profusely and prettily to the young man, who had his work cut out trying to prevent the frizzy-haired witch from bolting out the door.

Once Hermione was suitably placated and offered a flute of exquisite, calming champagne with the salon's compliments, Madame Bousquet and Draco engaged in a blistering conversation in French about what was to be done with the, er, 'situation' that was currently Hermione's crowning glory.

She sat in a salon chair, avoided her reflection in the mirror and daydreamed about Sir Guy of Gisbourne – until she picked up something that even her much-lacking French understood.

"Six hours?" she yelped. "Six hours to do my hair?"

"Er, oui," Madame Bousquet explained in halting English. "There ees the, er, treatment, and then, the, er" – she imitated a pair of scissors with her fingers – "and then, there ees the, er" – she pointed a finger at her own face and circled it.

"My face?" Hermione was outraged, and her heart ka-thumped in agreement. Okay, she admitted her hair was dry and frizzy and almost unmanageable, but she didn't think her face was _that_ hideous. She rounded on Draco. "What the hell is wrong with my damn face?"

"Nothing! Nothing's wrong with your face," he placated, with a wary eye on her colouring cheeks. "Madame Bousquet will do your make-up for tonight's event."

Hermione deflated, her cheeks burning. "Oh. I'm very sorry," she said to the startled Madame.

"Ees no matter," she assured Hermione, albeit slightly faintly, and swanned off to fetch another champagne for her rather prickly client.

"When am I going to find time to buy a dress?" Hermione hissed in desperation when Madame was out of earshot.

"Don't worry," Draco replied, lightly bopping her on the nose with his finger. "It'll be taken care of."

"How?" Hermione asked with extreme suspicion.

But he was gone.

Her heart thumping erratically, she settled back in her chair and did her best to relax.

The champagne helped.

* * *

**Six or so hours later **

You could have knocked Hermione over with a feather.

After hours of applied potions, charms and spells, her hair now felt soft and rich. Madame and her non-fainting minions debated the merits of different hairstyles in French too fast for Hermione to follow, but she was overwhelmed by the style they eventually went for: her now-plump and luscious curls bounced gently just above her shoulders, showing off a rich brown colour, subtly highlighted with glints of gold.

Admittedly, by Hermione's standards, they'd applied more cosmetic charms and potions to her face than she'd ever done in her life, but her large, dramatic eyes and plump lips, along with the careful dishevelment of her hair made her look...

... "Très chic," smiled Madame.

Hermione knew that word. Chic?

Crikey.

* * *

When Hermione reached her hotel room (oblivious to the admiring stares lobbed at her by admiring passers-by), she gaped with astonishment at what she saw. At least two dozen dresses, robes and matching accessories hung in mid-air. She could barely squeeze through the door for them.

A note in the shape of a bird hopped up and down on a side table. She picked it up.

_Granger, _

_ I wasn't sure which outfit you'd like, so I chose a bunch of them. They're on expenses. _

_ Thanks again,_

_ Malfoy _

Hermione let the note flutter off and thought. This could go either one or two ways. The meek and polite Hermione would thank Malfoy for his thoughtfulness in arranging the salon and dresses for her – especially, as she discovered after a game of Guess the Foreign Word with Madame Bousquet, that Malfoy had paid for that, too. Even though she made it clear she wanted to pay her own way, and that her salary was enough to cover today's expenses.

Just.

But the Hermione of today was cranky, out of sorts and itching to give Malfoy the tongue-blistering of a lifetime for his presumption.

She stomped to the door, put her hand on the knob –

\- and decided to stick a dress on, first.

* * *

An ominous pounding at his hotel room door roused a formally-robed Draco from his position on his room's small balcony, where he was nursing a Firewhisky and ruminating at the majestic night sky.

He crossed the floor and opened it.

"Draco bloody Malfoy!" Hermione fumed from the other side, "I made it perfectly clear at the outset of this excursion that I would not take your charity! And yet, what has happened today? Yah-de-dah-blah-blah etc..."

To be clear, Hermione wasn't saying yah-de-dah and so on. But to Draco's ears, that was all he could process. Because a very pissed-off vision of devilishly sexy beauty stood before him, and all he could do was stand and stare.

Hermione's hair was transformed from something rather similar to what you'd find raked into bunches in recently-mowed paddocks to rich, luscious curls that made his fingers itch to run his hands through. Her expressive eyes and full lips were highlighted to perfection.

The dress she chose had a strapless black velvet bodice and full, gathered asymmetrical skirt in metallic gold that revealed two very cute knees at the front and fell almost to the floor at the back.

She was a goddess.

And, currently, a very wrathful one.

"Would you care to continue your tirade inside?" Draco asked, stepping aside to let her in.

Huffing, she stepped through the doorway and stalked to the middle of his sitting room in killer heels.

"I'm not one of your kept women that needs to be constantly placated by gifts!" Hermione snapped, hands on hips.

Draco's brain finally clacked into gear. "Granger," he began, "you're attending this function both as a favour to me and as my employee. It would be inconceivable of me to put you out of pocket for a work-related event, and I will not accept any attempts by you to reimburse me."

At that, Hermione's puff-uppityness deflated. "But what about all the extra dresses in my room?" she asked doubtfully. "You don't expect me to keep all of them, surely?"

"They can go back to the shop."

"Thank Godric," she sighed, running her hand subconsciously over her skirt. "Sorry I had a go at you. I'm a bit nervous about this function. I've never had much to do with posh wizards and witches before."

Draco poured a measure of Firewhisky into a glass and handed it to her. "This'll help," he promised. "And besides, most of them will be too busy staring at your beauty to converse much."

Hermione's cheeked bloomed pink. "You think so?" she asked shyly.

Draco nodded. "I know so."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: A picture of Hermione's dress is available on Tumblr (NeverNike.)**

* * *

And he was right.

Draco was familiar to most in attendance at the Wizarding Embassy function, since his family spent most summers in Europe. Therefore, he knew the hushed whispers and admiring gazes weren't for him – they were all for the mysterious beauty at his side.

Well, that is, except for a small number of young heiresses, each sitting with their parents and simultaneously glaring daggers at Hermione and staring at him like a dog would at a bone.

The function resembled that of a dinner/dance party. Tables groaned with the best French Wizarding alcohol Galleons could buy and an assortment of delicious canapés. A not-too-large space on the floor for dancing appeared before a snooty wizarding quartet, who coaxed beautiful music out of their odd-looking instruments.

All in all, it was an elegant affair.

* * *

De Verley, the portly Wizarding Ambassador to France, approached Draco and Hermione first, accompanied by his wife, who could have literally stepped out of a painting of pre-revolutionary France, being clad in an enormous multi-hooped dress with obscenely low neckline, impossibly-cinched waist and hair piled so high and elaborately you could have successfully hidden a cuckoo clock in it.

"Ah! Young Draco!" the Ambassador greeted jovially (in French).

As Draco graciously replied in the same language, Hermione fretted inside. How was she supposed to have idle chit-chat with the other guests when she couldn't speak French?

But as Draco's tactful word, the Ambassador switched to English. After lengthily praising Hermione's chic beauty and style, he bowed and asked her if she would indulge an old wizard with a dance.

Hiding her alarm, she was swept off to the dance floor while Draco invited the reincarnation of Madame de Pompadour to sit. He himself chose a seat where he could keep a discreet eye on the dance floor.

For no reason, really.

* * *

Before Draco and the Ambassador's wife finished exchanging pleasantries, an ominous shadow cast over their table.

"Madame de Verley, would you be so kind as to introduce us?" spoke the shawdow in French.

Keeping a sigh to himself, Draco stood and turned to find a hungry, social-climbing society matron with beady eyes, a hawkish nose and a mouth permanently tuned to 'disapproving,' and what could only be her daughter, a younger replica, but with a slightly hawkier nose.

Both did their best to smile charmingly at Draco, but they only reminded him of two hungry dragons about to carve up their poor, unfortunate lunch.

"Of course!" Madame de Verlay simpered, always the matchmaker. "Monsieur Malfoy, may I present Madame Antoinette and Mademoiselle Ariane Dieulafoy."

"We almost 'ave the same surnames!" young Ariane honked as Draco bowed to the ladies. Which Draco guessed was her way of laughing.

"So it appears," Draco said non-committally on a smile. "Would you care to sit?"

Ariane stepped forward eagerly, but Madame Dieulafoy froze her in place with a wave of her hand. "Were you not saying this was your favourite piece of music, my dear?" she hinted heavily.

Ariane, now released from the freeze hold, struggled to keep her balance. "Er, oui, mère," she stammered, spots of colour forming on her cheeks.

Oh, well. Draco held out his hand. At least he could keep a closer eye on Hermione on the dance floor. Not that she needed taking care of. Did she?

"In that case, Mademoiselle, would you care to accompany me?" Draco asked, sugary-sweet.

Ariane shakily placed her gloved hand in his, and felt like the belle of the ball.

* * *

Draco and Hermione managed to lock eyes once of twice as each twirled or was twirled by their partners. Hermione's eyes, since she was having a lovely time with the elderly gentleman, sparkled – and sparkled even more when catching Draco's death mask of politeness, augmented with a dash of boredom and desperation.

"Be with you shortly," Hermione mouthed to her suffering boss, but 'shortly' turned out to be quite a long time, as gentlemen appeared one after the other, requesting her hand for a dance. Which was lovely and different to begin with, but at some point, grew tedious. However, since she didn't know the French for "My feet are bloody killing me, can you take me back to my table?' she smiled and smiled and suffered in silence. Soon, she was casting desperate looks at Draco every time he appeared on the dance floor with another potential bride.

At long last, Hermione managed to find a dance partner with a good grasp of English, and she gratefully let him usher her back to her seat, promising to fetch her some champagne ("The cure for everything, Mademoiselle!" he promised).

Imagine her surprise to find, when she arrived back at the table, that Draco seemed to be completely at the mercy of an apparently many-limbed femme fatale that was seconds away from falling out of her green, floor-length, sequinned body-con dress.

"Hermione!" Draco was so relieved, he didn't realise that he hadn't used the usual moniker 'Granger.' "You remember" –

"Pansy Parkinson," Hermione replied dourly. Well, this event's going to descend into the mire soon enough, she thought.

Pansy, who kept trying to sit on Draco's lap, no matter what he did to politely shove her off, turned her head and sized up the competition. She did not like what she saw.

"Have we met?" she spat.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Yeah, it was rude, but she was tired and cranky, so sue her. "Hermione Granger," she replied. "Draco's 'secretary.' She added finger quotes to the last word, knowing it would get right on Parkinson's tits.

Draco's eyes widened.

Hermione's English-speaking dance partner, who'd returned with two flutes of champagne, settled in for the drama, translating for the other looky-loos who were not blessed with complete knowledge of the Queen's Own.

And Parkinson's tits were, indeed, very 'got on' by Hermione's response. Along with the rest of her. Sliding off Draco's relieved lap, she stood and anchored her hands on her sequinny hips. "Well!" she huffed, her eyes shooting sparks. "Didn't take you long to worm your way into his bed, did it?"

The gathering crowd (after waiting for the translation) ooh-ed.

Hermione bared her teeth. "And yet, I've accompanied him to this event, not you. So, I presume I'm worth keeping around."

Pansy's blood-red mouth fell open, and the crowd OOH-ED!

Draco was usually the first to create a bit of drama, but this time he stood up and put a hand on Pansy's arm. Which he used to push her gently aside as he made his way to Hermione's side.

"Pansy," he said firmly, "Hermione is my guest at this function, and I won't have you embarrass yourself by creating a scene."

Trouble was, Pansy didn't have an embarrassment gene. She was all for the drama. The more the merrier. So she dialled it up.

"You look like you wouldn't even know how to suck a lollipop, yet alone a man's cock," she sneered. (That got a big delayed 'OOH' from the crowd). "Big Drakey will come back to me once he's had enough of Little Miss Virgin."

Right. Draco was done. And actually embarrassed, for once. Normally he felt quite smug when his genitalia was discussed in public.

He turned, got the worried Ambassador's attention and signalled for Security. Behind him, he heard Hermione drew in a hot, pained breath, gasp out "At least I" – then nothing.

He whirled around, and to his shock, found Hermione unconscious on the floor.

* * *

Hermione was in a nice, peaceful place. Everything was warm and felt oh, so soft. There was a delicate breeze, on which the scent of jasmine hung...

... until it was rudely disturbed by a revolting stench that wafted under her nostrils.

Really, the management of this place could do much better.

Annoyed, Hermione's eyes fluttered open and she discovered the source of the stench: it was Draco, holding his wand that burned with a vile, ammoniac smell at the tip. She wrenched her head feebly away.

"Hermione!" Draco said urgently, extinguishing his wand and cradling her face in his hands. "Can you sit up, love?"

Hermione let herself be gently raised to a half-reclining state by many helpful (male) French hands. Her evening bag was sitting next to Draco, and from it he drew her vial of heart potion. He uncorked it with just-steady-enough hands and held it to her lips. "Will this help?" he asked.

Too weak to talk, she opened her lips and let Draco trickle some of the potion into her mouth. Once swallowed, she waited a few seconds, and was most relieved to find that her heartbeat was slowly travelling back to something resembling 'steady.'

"Thanks, Malfoy," she croaked.

Gods, she hated her heart so much! That was the first verbal fight she'd ever gotten into – and she was even enjoying it, a little – until her heart decided it wanted a time-out.

Stupid heart!

Draco smiled in relief, and only now did Hermione realise how pale his features were. Well. Paler than normal. He'd been biting his lip, she noticed. Almost to the point of bleeding.

"Fancy an early night?" he asked.

"Yeah," she whispered.

In a heartbeat, Draco scooped her into his arms and stood up (to the chorus of 'aahs' from the spectators). The Ambassador's wife looped the strap of Hermione's evening bag around her wrist and made sure it was secure, all the while issuing a series of motherly clucks and coos in French. The Ambassador himself cleared a path to the venue's Floo, where two burly security wizards with no senses of humour stood guard.

"What happened to Mlle. Parkinson?" Draco asked the Ambassador.

Nodding to the guards, he replied "They threw her out. Literally. And quite a distance, from what I hear."

"I need to have a word with her," Draco sighed. "But not tonight. Hermione is my most important task right now."

The Ambassador patted Draco on the back, and after promises to drop by when the 'lovely young lady was better,' Draco took them back to the hotel.

* * *

**Hôtel Coulomb **

Hermione was asleep by the time Draco arrived at their rooms, and he couldn't locate Hermione's key without putting her down and propping her up in the hallway so he could find her key with his wand. So he entered his own room with the key he had in his pocket.

He gently laid Hermione out on one side of his sumptuous bed. She snuffled a bit, but didn't wake. He removed her killer footwear, wincing at the redness of her toes and heels, and rubbed them gently to reintroduce them to life.

Removing his robe, jacket, tie, belt and shoes, he wondered what to do about her dress. She'd be much more comfortable out of it, obviously, but she'd probably slaughter him if she discovered herself in his room, in his bed, in nothing but the lingerie she wore underneath the dress.

Then he started wondering whether she actually wore any lingerie under that dress...

... and had to excuse himself to drink a grandfather clock-sized glass of Firewhisky.

* * *

Upon returning to his bedroom, he decided to keep her dress on, but carefully rolled her to one side to loosen the fastenings. That done, he pulled the sheets back with his wand, gently moved her legs under the sheets, and thought he'd done a pretty good job of making her warm and comfy.

Now, as for him...

Sharing the bed might be risky to his health and bollocks. Sleeping in the sitting room or even her room was out of the question, since he wouldn't be able to see or hear her if she got distressed during the night. That left a small chaise-longue at the foot of the bed.

Draco eyed it distastefully, but no amount of enlarging spells would make it Draco-sized. He grabbed a pillow and blanket, and buckled down.

* * *

After he fell off, and then woke to a painful set of leg cramps, he muttered 'Fuck it' and climbed on top of the bed alongside Hermione. Pulling the blanket over himself, he finally relaxed and fell asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Next morning **

Hermione slowly swam into consciousness, feeling oddly overdressed and underdressed at the same time. Her shoulders were exposed, which was unusual, since she normally wore an old t-shirt to bed, and her legs felt weighed down by something heavy and scritchy.

Sleepily, she scratched her head – then sat bolt upright, clutched it in both hands and shrieked "Merlin's tits, what happened to my hair?!"

This, in turn, created sudden movement from the other side of the bed, something Hermione was NOT used to, thank you very much. With her instincts jammed on FLEE! she leapt from the bed, caught her feet in the longer sections of her skirt – and fell arse over tit to the floor.

The fall helped shake Hermione's senses back into order, somewhat. She remembered what happened to her hair; she remembered the dress. What she didn't remember was ending up in someone else's hotel room, and indeed, in the bed of –

"Graceful as a flitterby by night; as flat-footed as a troll at dawn," Draco yawned from the bed above her. "You certainly have a unique way of getting out of bed in the morning, Granger."

Hermione reserved her sarcastic response, as she'd just discovered that the back of her dress was unfastened. Kneeling, she laboriously fastened herself together before Draco clucked his tongue in irritation and motioned her to the edge of the bed to finish it.

"I was just surprised," Hermione explained, trying her best to ignore his fingers on her bare skin. "But I'm starting to remember things." She touched her hair again.

"Any regrets?" Draco asked, climbing off the bed and stretching his arms. Hermione gaped at the sexy figure he made in his formal pants, rumpled, unbuttoned shirt and bed hair.

"Just one," she mumbled. "Pushing myself too far." She looked at Draco, who stood silently in the middle of the bedroom, inscrutable. "Thank you for everything," she stuttered. "You know. Last night."

Going by the hard clench of his jaw, she presumed Draco was running phrase after phrase through his head before discarding them, and she felt a pang of guilt. Eventually, he nodded and asked "How do you feel now?"

"Much better," Hermione assured him. "In fact, I'm famished. I could eat a horse!"

Draco smiled. "I don't think horse is served at this hour of the morning. Instead, shall we order some breakfast and sit out on the balcony instead?"

Hermione's stomach growled in the affirmative.

* * *

After a luscious breakfast of baguette, croissants, condiments, pastries, tangy apple juice and rich black coffee, Draco sighed in satisfaction and leaned back in his wrought-iron chair. "The ambassador would like to see you again, to make sure you've recovered," he remarked, "but the rest of the day is ours. How about we meet in the lobby in half an hour and we'll sort out a sightseeing plan?"

"Really?" Hermione asked. "But you've been here so many times! You must have seen everything, surely?"

Draco shrugged. "But not through your eyes. You have a unique way of looking at the world."

Hermione didn't know what to say.

"Anyway," he continued, standing up, "you finish up here. I'm going to have a shower."

"Okay," Hermione mumbled around her pastry.

* * *

Hermione finished her breakfast and headed through the sitting room to the door. She could hear the sound of water being turned off from the bedroom's ensuite. ('Stop imagining him naked!' she lectured herself.)

Then she shrieked as the sitting room's half-sized Floo suddenly leapt into life and Lucius Malfoy's stern, patrician features rippled in the green flames.

He frowned at the pretty, flabbergasted girl in a formal dress, dishevelled hair and bare feet. Obviously just about to tiptoe out of his son's boudoir after a night between the sheets, he sniffed disapprovingly. "You!" he commanded in impeccable French. "Fetch my son at once."

The girl's eyes grew wide and she bit her lip. "I'm sorry, Mr Malfoy" –

Lucius's patrician eyebrows shot up. "An English witch?" he said to himself, although at a level Hermione could perfectly hear. "I do NOT APPROVE of 'modern' witches!" he snapped, even though in his pre-marriage days, he was perfectly prepared to test out the springs of his own bed with them.

"S-shall I fetch Mr Malfoy, um, your son, for you?" Hermione stammered. Good grief! she thought. She couldn't believe she thought Draco was arrogant! He's a pussycat compared to this monster.

"Well, I'm hardly here to converse with you, am I?" he snapped. "Tell him it's about the luxury accommodation paper he wrote."

"Oh!" Hermione eeped. "Actually, I" –

"GO!" Lucius thundered, and Hermione fled.

* * *

Knocking on the bathroom door but keeping her hands well away from the doorknob, Hermione called out "Malfoy! Your father's on the Floo! It's about the hotel paper."

A sparkling-clean and lovely-smelling Draco in trousers and a partially done-up fitted shirt opened the door, rubbing his hair with a towel. "Is he?" he exclaimed. Then he peered at Hermione's pale face. "You all right?" he asked with concern.

"Um, yeah," Hermione said not-too-convincingly. "He just, um, seems to be in a bad mood...?"

Draco patted her bare shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry! He's horrible to everyone."

Hermione nodded doubtfully. "I think he presumes that I'm some girl you picked up last night to... you know..."

Draco's hand stilled, then he gently squeezed her shoulder. "Well, let's disabuse him of that idea, shall we?" he said lightly. However, his jaw was set.

Before she could say a word, Draco grabbed her hand and pulled her into the sitting room.

* * *

Lucius rolled his eyes when Draco led Hermione back to the Floo. "Merlin's nuts, boy, I'm here to discuss business! It's not at all appropriate to do it when your harlot's flitting about!"

Hermione flushed and drew her bare toes in towards her feet.

Draco's reply was just as cold as his father's. "Miss Granger is not my lover. She's my secretary. And I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head when addressing my employee."

Lucius no more believed the girl was Draco's secretary than he believed that Muggles landed on the moon, but he'd humour them. "Fine," he spat out between gritted teeth. "Let's get on to this paper, shall we? It's a little rough around the edges, but overall, it's a useful business proposal."

Draco leaned forward, cupping his ear. "Pardon, Father? The reception's a bit scratchy."

"I SAID, IT'S A USEFUL BUSINESS PROPOSAL!"

Draco sat back, smirking. "Kind of you to say, Father. Except – I didn't write it."

"Eh?"

Draco looked at Hermione. "Miss Granger wrote it," he said proudly.

"Piffle!" Lucius snorted.

But before he could say another word, his scowling visage was wrenched away and a beautiful woman's face replaced his, exclaiming "What on earth is all the yelling about? Even with the English Channel between you, the pair of you do go on." She spied Draco, and her lovely face lit up. "Draco, darling! Oh, how lovely to see you! I miss you so much already."

Draco's cheeks tinged pink, to Hermione's private amusement. "Hello, Mother!" he replied. "You look as radiant as always."

Mrs Malfoy giggled, then she clocked Hermione sitting next to her son, and perked up even more. "Oh! Hello, there!" she trilled. "Narcissa Malfoy," she said, introducing herself. "And you are...?"

"H-Hermione Granger, Mrs Malfoy," Hermione stammered nervously. "A pleasure to meet you."

"She's his 'secretary,'" came Lucius's sarcastic insertion from somewhere behind Narcissa. You could practically see his finger quotes floating through the Floo.

"What a good idea, Draco, to engage a secretary!" she cried. "You never were one for the finer details, my dear."

"Thanks, Mother," Draco said with mild sarcasm. "But you're right. Miss Granger has been a godsend."

Oh dear. Hermione could feel her shoulders start to heat with the praise, since her face was already on fire. She tucked a curl of hair behind her ear and tried to look busy with her notebook.

"And that's such a lovely dress you have on, my dear!"

Much as Draco was loath to interrupt his mum when she was clearly getting down to a good old girls' talk (since she was far more pleasant to talk to than his father), he regretfully interrupted and reminded her that they were in the middle of a business meeting, after all.

"All right," Narcissa sighed, a little disappointed. "But don't forget to Floo often and let me know how you are, darling! A mother does worry, you know."

"I will, Mother."

"Make sure he doesn't forget, won't you, Miss Granger?"

"I will, Mrs Malfoy," she grinned.

Narcissa reluctantly handed the Floo back to a tetchy Lucius, and the three got down to business. Yes, three. Despite Lucius's acidic comments and flouncy hair swishes.

* * *

**Later **

After Hermione showered and dressed, she headed down to the hotel's lobby. She found Draco sitting in one of the comfy chairs, reading the _Daily Prophet_, but when he raised his head, he looked like he had the beginnings of a headache.

"You okay?" Hermione asked, concerned.

He sighed, put the paper away and stood up. "Granger," he began carefully, "at the risk of exposing myself to a knee in the bollocks, you can't see the Ambassador dressed like that."

"Like what?" Hermione looked down at her clothes. She was wearing what she normally wore to work – i.e. sensible, shapeless trousers and shirt. Sure, they were a little drab, but she was clean and tidy, at least.

She raised her head and glanced around the lobby at the few witches who were up and about at this time of morning. They were all clad in bold, brightly-coloured, floaty dresses, skirts and tops, looking divinely beautiful in a way only the French can be. Her heart sank.

"I hate shopping," she mumbled. That was one of the reasons why she had practically nothing in her wardrobe except work attire. On the occasions Ginny dragged her around the shops, Hermione held the shopping bags, nodded when asked "does this look all right?" and daydreamed the rest of the torturous expeditions away.

But Draco, once again, had all the answers. "Luckily, I love it," he countered. "And I'm more than happy to help. That is, if you trust me."

Hermione scrutinised his face. It was so much less pointy than what she could remember of him at school.

Did she trust him?

At the beginning of their tour, that question would have had her rolling on the floor, shrieking with laughter. But now?

She held out her hand, and he tucked it into the corner of his arm. "This way, milady," he said, and they stepped out together from the hotel into the beautiful Parisian sunshine.

* * *

**Even later **

Draco sneaked another admiring look at Hermione as they left the Ambassador's residence, stuffed to the gills with pastries, bonbons and gorgeous drops of wine. She wore dark blue, fitted, calf-length jeans, an oversized white shirt that had him thinking rather indecent thoughts about her leaving his bedroom again – not in a gown, but in one of his own shirts – and black kitten heels. With her lovely, bouncy hair and bright red lipstick, she looked like a native Parisian – a world away from the diminutive figure he met in the square in Diagon Alley. She looked vibrant.

Not at all like a woman whose life was going to end in a few short months.

The unbidden thought made him draw in his breath.

Again, Hermione looked at him curiously. "You sure you're all right?" she asked cautiously.

Draco shoved those thoughts roughly aside. "Yes, Mother, don't fuss!" he returned, smirking when she rolled her eyes. "Anyway, now it's time to sightsee. You get to choose where we go this afternoon – because I have something in mind for this evening."

"I should be concerned," Hermione mused thoughtfully, "but I won't look a gift horse in the mouth." She looked up and grinned. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"To the Louvre!"


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: just a short one.**

**A picture of Hermione's dress is on my Tumblr (NeverNike).**

**_ Moulin Rouge:_ I've never been, so I don't know if there's a bar or it it's strictly table service. But for the purposes of the plot, the bar is best. Apologies to those who know far better than I x**

* * *

**Late evening **

Scrutinising her astonishingly-sized wardrobe, Hermione wondered what Draco meant by 'dress up, but not too dress-up' when they spoke earlier. Dropping her towel, she wandered, scandalously naked, through the innumerable outfits that Draco insisted she purchase earlier in the day, and settled on a silver lace sheath dress with a low, scalloped v-neckline. She frowned at the lowness of the neckline – just as she did in the shop when Draco suggested it – but she presumed that wherever he was taking them, it would be dark-ish.

Draco, on the other hand, was running a little late. Showering after returning to the hotel, the silence of the bathroom failed to hold back those fleeting thoughts he had earlier about Hermione clad in one of his shirts... and, guiltily, gave in to the temptation fantasy offered, taking his erection in his hand and stroking himself to an orgasm that was rather lacking in its usual pleasure.

But by the time Hermione knocked insistently on his hotel room door, Draco was clean and clothed, and his usual air of smirky insouciance was firmly in place.

"Ah, Granger, you're in for a treat tonight!" Draco promised, putting her hand in the crook of his arm once more. Then he paused. "Um, how open-minded are you?"

Hermione's eyes grew round. "Why?" she demanded. "What are you going to make me do?"

Draco smirked. "My dear Miss Granger, you are going to have a meal, drink some champagne and watch a show. Do you think you can cope with that?"

Hermione opened and closed her mouth. "Yes," she grumped. "But I have a feeling there's more to it than that."

"You trusted me this morning," Draco pointed out with a grin.

"And now it's the evening," Hermione retorted. "A lot can happen in a day."

Draco merely laughed, and they headed into the Muggle zone to hail a taxi.

* * *

The taxi dropped the lovely-looking couple outside a building in the 18th _arrondissement._ It had a rather unusual feature on its roof that make it stick out from the other buildings in the district – a gaudy, red windmill.

Hermione stared at it.

"Welcome, my dear, to the _Moulin Rouge!"_ Draco announced, and escorted her inside before she could fling herself back into the taxi and hare off back to the hotel.

* * *

**Inside the _Moulin Rouge _**

At their small table, Hermione quaffed her champagne and stole another look at the man sitting opposite her, smiling and relaxing in his seat as if he owned the place. In fact, Hermione wondered if a cabaret like this was a guaranteed profit-turner, and whether the Malfoys were looking to invest (hardly, since it was a Muggle enterprise and Lucius Malfoy seemed to have a deathly allergy to Muggles) or, more likely, to open a version of the same in the wizarding world.

She didn't particularly think it would fly. The wizarding world was notoriously stuffy from a Muggleborn's perspective, and notwithstanding that a wizard from one of their elite families was sitting across the table from her, she didn't think that many witches and wizards would hand over fistfuls of Galleons to watch –

"Topless dancers, Malfoy!" she hissed, scandalised, across the table.

Draco looked over at her and grinned lazily. It belied the fact that he was starting to find Hermione's dress and heaving bosoms very distracting. And attracting. "They're wearing tops, Granger."

"Strands of glass beads are not tops! You can clearly see their breasts! Every inch of their breasts!"

And yet none could hold a candle to Granger's, he thought. He didn't think she'd appreciate the compliment if he said it out loud.

"Does the nudity upset you?" he asked with a gleam in his eye.

"Well, no…" she fidgeted, cheeks pink. "It's just not what I expected."

"These dancers are highly-trained artistes," he reminded her. "They perform high-energy shows twice a night. The competition to perform in the Moulin Rouge is very fierce. They're not girls who show their tits for cheap thrills or sex." He gestured to the stage. "We're watching art."

Hermione settled back in her chair and watched them again with new eyes. Their skill and professionalism was very clear, she realised. Some of their intricately-designed, immense feather headpieces probably weighed a ton. Focussing on their art, the bare breasts almost faded into insignificance. And as for energy – the high kicks the smiling dancers threw effortlessly into the air when they danced the can-can, the _Moulin Rouge's_ famous dance, made Hermione imagine she'd probably wrench her leg off just trying to achieve one. She quickly began to enjoy herself.

She missed the glint of Draco's silver eyes, watching her in the dim light.

* * *

The time came for Hermione to spend a penny, so while she was gone, Draco headed to the bar and ordered some more drinks.

He was pocketing his change when the subtle scent of a woman's perfume floated around him. Looking to his left, he saw a beautiful, dark-haired woman sidle up next to him and order champagne with no more than a flutter of her eyelashes.

She saw him looking and returned his stare with a coy smile. "Enjoying the show?" she asked in French.

He knew she was referring to her scarlet bodycon dress and exquisitely made-up face. The familiar excitement of the chase pooled in the bottom of his stomach.

"I find much to enjoy," he replied, nodding at the bartender who procured his drinks. "I'll cover it," he said when the same man produced the lady's champagne.

Draco knew the rules so well, he could recite them in his sleep.

She rewarded him with a beautiful smile. "You are too kind," she purred, running a scarlet finger down the chilled bottle, then over the rims of two (yes, two) champagne glasses. "And your lady friend, she also likes the show?"

Interesting. She'd been watching them. Whereas he'd never seen her before.

He looked into her dark, fathomless eyes. "She's a colleague," he admitted, wondering why in hell he said that. "And yes, I believe she is. It's her first time."

"Ah," she said expansively, in the way that only the French can. "Perhaps after the show, we could have a drink somewhere more private?"

Just then, Hermione weaved her way back to their table, once more oblivious to the admiring glances from the men she passed. Draco quirked his lips.

"Perhaps another time," he murmured, gathering his drinks.

She shrugged, then slipped a card into his hand. "In case you change your mind," she whispered, then disappeared into the crowd with her bounty.

Draco discreetly vanished the card into his pants pocket before heading back to the table.

* * *

In the taxi ride back to the hotel, Hermione was effervescent. She chatted nineteen to the dozen about the sets, the dances, the dancers, the people she noticed in the audience – she was alive with animation, and Draco thought she'd never looked lovelier. And her dress – oh, dear gods...

When they entered the hotel lobby, Draco feigned immense tiredness and gently cut Hermione off mid-sentence as she was trying to speculate what the minimum height requirement was for the dancers.

"I knew you'd love it," he smirked, which had Hermione poking her tongue out at him. "But this old man needs to tuck in. We'll reconvene at breakfast in the morning, yeah?"

If Hermione was disappointed, she didn't show it. "Okeydokey," she said.

When they arrived at her room, Draco kissed her on the cheek as he always did. "'Night, Granger."

"Night, Malfoy."

* * *

In his room, Draco poured a glass of water and wandered out onto his balcony to stargaze. He fished the mystery woman's card out of his pocket and examined it in the moon's light.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he_ incendio'ed_ the card, and headed inside.

* * *

**A/N: a new country next chapter!**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Marian's back – and she's brought a lemon with her! **

**Another short chapter; I'm still struggling with the hypothyroid bits and bobs and I'm just writing when I'm able to. Nevertheless, this is a bit of a watershed chapter!**

* * *

_**Nottingham Castle **_

_**Night **_

_The feast was interminable, loud and boisterous – much like every other feast the castle put on when there was a victory to be celebrated. Marian loathed the noise and tedium, but one thing kept her at her seat (besides the Sheriff's narcissistic wrath if she left too early), and that was Sir Guy of Gisbourne._

_He and his men had been away for weeks, but now he was back._

_As the Sheriff's right-hand man, Guy sat next to the self-important toad, who was at the head of the table. Marian, a high-born lady, sat across the banqueting table, a few spaces down, after the Sheriff's guests. Every time she looked up from her plate, she met his unwavering gaze. After every sip of her wine – the same. _

_She'd been without him for weeks. The pit of her stomach tingled with need. _

_Would he come to her? Or would she swallow her pride and go to him? _

_The goblet trembled in her hand, swirling the wine. She put it carefully down and looked at her rippling reflection in the contents._

_The odious burgher sitting to her left leaned over and asked if she was all right._

_Marian glanced at Guy before she turned to the guest. His eyes were hard._

"_I'm well, sir, thank you for your concern," she replied._

"_But your beautiful skin is so pale," the burgher insisted, running a greasy finger over her cheek. She only barely contained her flinch._

_Dishes clattered to the floor as Guy abruptly stood up. The banquet eaters paused, agog._

"_Sir Johan is correct," Guy replied in even tones. "The Lady Marian seems most unwell. Have Lady Marian's attendants escort her to her chambers."_

_Marian opened her mouth to argue; but Guy's expression caused her to close it. And in truth, she was glad to get away from Sir Johan of the touchy-feely fingers and the rest of the rabble-rousers. _

_Demurely she nodded in meek acquiescence, while her attendants bustled forward from the background and helped her to her feet._

_Guy's gaze seared her retreating back like a brand._

* * *

_**Marian's chambers **_

_Once in her spacious chambers, Marian endured her attendants' fussing for a short while, then got them busy preparing a bath. Scented with lavender and chamomile (to soothe her 'poor, unwell' body), she almost impatiently dismissed them afterwards, assuring them she could take care of herself and would go to sleep immediately after. _

_She didn't tarry with her bath. She didn't know how long Guy would be. But he would come to her. She was certain. Sometime._

_Once dry and clothed, she headed onto the stone balcony and leaned against the balustrade. The night was inky black, and the torches that marched alongside the castle walls did little to penetrate the darkness. Footsteps and the clank of armour and weapons echoed in the night. The Watch._

_A large hand with long, sculpted fingers wrapped around her waist and pulled her back. Startled, her shriek was muffled by another hand. Her captor's scent was familiar, as was that of his form. She relaxed into his hold. It was Guy._

"_Such a poor example of being on your guard, my Lady." Guy's mocking whisper brushed her ear. "I'll have your tutor hanged first thing in the morning."_

"_You yourself taught me a lot of what I know," she murmured. "And as for my other tutor, he has to be found first before you can hang him."_

_Guy let that go without comment, and Marian knew he was impatient for her. A shiver of lust took her body. _

"_Are you cold?" he asked._

_She shook her head. "Not in the least."_

_Guy pulled a skein of her loose hair away from ear and neck. "Good," he whispered against her skin._

_His hands moved to her bodice, and he roughly pulled the ties apart, baring her breasts to the cool night air. Conscious of the nearby Watch, she contained her gasp of surprise. However, she could do nothing about her flushed cheeks._

_His cool hands cupped her breasts possessively, squeezing and kneading them. "I dreamed about these when I was away," he whispered roughly against her skin. He brushed her nipples with his fingertips, and she shook with a need she couldn't release by making a sound._

_She moved against his body, finding his clothed erection. He felt like steel. Bringing her hands behind her, she loosened his clothing. She smiled when she clasped his heated cock in her hand, and his hiss flew past her ear._

_Now we are equal, she thought smugly. _

_How wrong she was. _

_Her breasts were bared to the elements again when his hands disappeared to the back of her dress. Quickly raising the hem, he bared her skin to the waist and nudged her legs apart with his foot. He drew two fingers through the folds at the entrance to her pussy, smirking when they came away wet. Tasting them, he closed his eyes in satisfaction._

"_I dreamed about your taste, too," he whispered, returning his fingers to the entrance of her body. _

_Marian's breath was unsteady, and she gripped the balustrade for support. Is he really going to…?_

_He pushed those same fingers inside – no finesse, no gentleness – and it was exactly how she wanted it. Releasing a shaking hand from the balustrade, she drew a fist and bit down on it, swallowing her howl of raw need for him. _

_Guy fucked her with his long, long fingers. "I'm going to take you right here, Marian," he whispered, not letting up in pace. "You're going to come on my fingers, then I will fuck you against the balustrade, within earshot of my men. You understand?"_

"_God…" Marian whispered, pushing against his hand. She was so close… _

_Guy sneaked his other hand between the front of her legs and stroked her pulsing clitoris. "Come for me, Marian," he urged, his voice rough._

_Marian felt her orgasm build at an astounding pace. Her knuckles were white from gripping the balustrade, and her legs shook. She took a deep breath and held it as her pussy clenched hard around Guy's fingers, over and over._

"_Yes…" Guy gritted as fluid from her body trickled past his fingers and coated the top of her thighs. _

"_Take me!" Marian begged on a whisper. "I can't wait" – _

_He filled her core with hard, heated flesh and she dearly wished she could moan out loud. More than that - scream. She'd wanted this for so long, but not even her wildest imagination could adequately describe the feeling of being utterly filled and fulfilled, over and over, by this enigmatic man, a lover she still didn't really know. She pushed her arse back against his strokes and leaned against his chest, revelling in the stutter of his heartbeat._

_Guy gathered her hair to one side and rested his head on her shoulder. "Marian… dear God, woman…" he breathed, then moaned low when her core got impossibly wetter. _

_The lovers stayed like this, giving and taking from each other, until Guy swore under his breath and Marian felt his pace jerk. She slid off him, whirled around and squatted at his feet. Taking his soaking cock in her hand, she angled it into her open mouth, moving up and down his shaft and sucking it as he taught her weeks ago, before he left. She laid a hand on his muscled thigh for balance. It was shaking._

_Guy gathered her hair once more in his hands, keeping absolutely silent as he orgasmed. Warm fluid, tasting of him, emptied into her mouth before she swallowed (without gagging this time, she was pleased to note)._

_A strong hand pulled her up and into his embrace. They stayed in each other's arms until each was fit to speak again._

_Guy kissed her slowly, with an infinite gentleness his men would be surprised to see. He offered her his arm, and they left the balcony for her bed._

* * *

It was a passage Hermione had read once or twice before.

Okay, fifty or more times. The book fell naturally open to this section now.

Each time, Hermione couldn't help be aroused by the words. On the few occasions she explored herself with her fingers, her core was soaking and her clitoris was just a few strokes away from ignition. Often she daydreamed about this scene, with her in place of Marian and Guy's silver eyes boring into her, outraged that another man had touched her –

Hang on. Guy has blue eyes, right? Draco has the silvery-grey ones.

Frustrated, Hermione put the book down once more and headed to her hotel window. Peering out at another night sky in another land, she sighed and tackled head-on the issue she'd been struggling to ignore.

She was going to die in a few months.

She didn't want to die a virgin.

It seems like so much fun in the books. Except for the first time, of course. Even she was cognisant enough to recognise that most 'first time' scenes in romance books were utterly full of shit. So, she'd need to find a bloke that knows how to treat women well in bed.

Someone with experience.

Not a stranger. She couldn't see herself shagging a stranger. Not the first time, especially.

Hence the sighs and the frustration.

The best man to give her virginity to in the limited time she had left was Draco Malfoy.

Except he's given no sign (that she's seen, anyway) that he's remotely attracted to her in that way.

So, she'll have to ask him.

Oh, dear God.

Maybe dying a virgin won't be so bad? It's not like anyone would know, right?

She would know.

What's the worst that could happen? He says no, and we spend the rest of the tour being extremely awkward with each other.

Well, that would suck.

So would not having sex. Having read about it lots of times and all…

Hermione came to a resolution. She'll ask Draco to take her virginity tomorrow. At some point. If there's time.

* * *

**A/N: What could possibly happen next? ;) **


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: I visited Neuschwanstein when I was an impressionable lass of 15. It has got to be one of the most beautiful places on the planet. If you haven't been, give it a Google. It will take your breath away.**

* * *

**M****ü****nchen Hauptbahnhof**

"Malfoy," Hermione said, standing in Munich's modern-looking train station and consulting her trusty atlas, "I thought you said we were headed to the Mosel region to look at winemaking opportunities."

Draco was watching the station's digital billboards change from ad to ad. "Yup."

"But you asked me to book tickets to take us to Ho-Hohe-Hu" –

"Hohenschwangau."

"Thank you. Hohenschwangau, which, according to my atlas, is not in the Mosel region. Not by a long shot."

"True."

Frustrated, Hermione rolled up her atlas and whacked Draco on the arm with it. "Stop being monosyllabic and pay attention to me!"

Draco dragged his eyes from the brightly-lit billboards and rubbed his arm. "Chill out, Granger," he drawled, which had Hermione grinding her teeth. "We'll head to the Mosel region after we've completed a day trip to Hohenschwangau."

Hermione was not normally one to voluntarily have travel plans put into disarray. "Why?" she demanded.

Draco smiled at her, sinful and sexy. "You'll have to wait and see."

Steam almost poured from Hermione's ears.

"You're rather touchy this morning, Granger, even more so than usual, if I must be honest. Is there anything I can help you with?"

Hermione stared at him, trying to find the words to say "Draco Malfoy, I want you to take my virginity," but gosh darn it, the words just didn't seem to form in her mouth.

Draco stared at her oddly. "We've got time for a coffee before we board," he suggested.

Hermione sagged with relief. "That would be nice, thank you."

"And over coffee, you can explain to me how those large pictures keep changing without magic!"

Hermione groaned.

* * *

**Hohenschwangau **

** "**Oh my godfathers," Hermione breathed when she got a good gander at the piece of architecture sitting proudly in the Bavarian mountains, overlooking the town of Hohenschwangau. It was nothing if not the most beautiful castle in the whole damn world.

It looked like a fairy tale castle, with moats and multiple white limestone towers and deep blue turrets - indeed everything every little girl would want her dream castle to be, nestled in lush, blue-green forests. In fact, Disney's _Cinderella _and _Sleeping Beauty_ castles were modelled on Schloss Neuschwanstein, which is why Hermione felt an immediate connection, even though she'd never seen it before. She must have watched those movies a hundred times as a child, before magic entered her life.

She turned to Draco. "Is this day trip... for me?" she stammered.

He shrugged easily. "I thought you'd like it."

"_Like_ it!" That was all Hermione could manage.

"We've still got to get to the castle, yet. Fancy a horse and cart ride or shall we walk up?"

Hermione's eyes were shining. "Walk!" And she immediately set off up the hill at a brisk pace, looking at everything except where her feet should go.

Draco smiled to himself and followed her. Hermione in an effervescent mood was... something he'd give his wand to see every day.

* * *

**Schloss Neuschwanstein**

"No way," Hermione muttered, eyes out on stalks, "is this how royalty really live?"

Draco wrinkled his nose. The castle tours were much too commercialised for his taste. And since no-one lived in the castle and it was preserved for the millions of tourists who come to stare with their eyes out on stalks, it had a rather clinical atmosphere that Malfoy Manor didn't have. Sure, it was plenty opulent, with nothing but the best and oldest knick-knacks and gew-gaws on display, but the Manor lived and breathed. Not literally, even in the Wizarding world. And despite his foul-tempered wanker of a father lurking around in the wings, his mother always managed to bring light and life into every room.

Despite this castle's nearly endless capacity for rooms, only fourteen were completed and shown to tourists. But those fourteen rooms packed a punch. Even King Ludwig II's dressing room contained a magnificent ceiling painting, and the walls were bedecked with murals of great German poets. It was furnished in rich violet and gold silks, which Hermione privately speculated would be quite the bugger to keep free from mould and whatnot. Especially for Muggles.

Draco stood to the side, watching Hermione as she explored one room after the other, asking the English-speaking tour guide questions that had him scratching his head and consulting his iPhone. Granger the swot, he thought fondly. Don't ever change.

* * *

Outside, the pair found a private patch of grass beneath an ancient fir tree and sat down, stretching their legs out in the sun and admiring the stunning vista the castle made. Hermione pulled out some water, apples and luscious German chocolate for them both.

"You seem pretty taken with this castle, Granger. You do recall living at Hogwarts Castle for seven years, right?"

"Yeah, but Hogwarts was rather... grey," Hermione confessed. "This castle's just so light, and looks so pretty among the trees and mountains!"

"Reckon you could live there? If you married King Ludwig and he actually survived to see his castle finished, that is."

"I wasn't born to think of living in such grandeur," Hermione replied thoughtfully. "Most marital homes have two spouses, maybe a couple of pets, and children later on. That sort of family unit would rattle around in the castle! You could probably go weeks without seeing anyone. And not to mention the cleaning!"

"You'd have servants, Granger."

She wrinkled her nose. "I'd rather not. I'd be awful at ordering people around. I find it hard enough with house elves."

Draco laughed. "You're pretty good at ordering me around!"

She threw him an arch look. "You require ordering around."

Draco scoffed and crunched his apple.

* * *

Hermione lay down on the grass, her eyes closed. "I often dream about a blue castle," she murmured.

Draco rolled over and propped his head on his hand. "What's a blue castle?" he asked, curious.

"It can be anything you want. My blue castle looks similar to this one, but what's inside is the most important."

Draco watched her in silence.

"Inside my castle, I have no heart troubles. I can run and jump and skip all I like without feeling pain. It's filled with books, thousands of books, and I can pick a different room each day to read a book in and never visit the same one twice. I'd throw marvellous parties and everyone would come, because everyone likes me."

Draco's heart panged.

"Then, as I got older," she said, blushing," I'd have male companions. Knights, eager to head out on the adventures I'd planned for them." Then she laughed self-consciously. "And when I was older still, I had lovers. Men who would make me feel the way the heroines in my silly romance books felt."

"Well, why not?" Draco asked, oblivious to his upcoming role.

Hermione sighed sadly, and sat up to face him. "You're so different, compared to the person I barely knew in England. Have you changed, or is it me?"

Draco thought about it. "I can say the same about you," he noted. "Not just on the outside," he added, indicating her clothes and hair, "but we're comfortable around each other enough to chat and tease and tell each other off. Maybe we haven't changed ourselves, but we've become friends."

Hermione's answering smile had Draco feeling a little stiff in a certain region. "You're right!" Then she bit her lip. "Well, hopefully this makes what I'm about to say slightly easier."

Draco felt cold all of a sudden.

"I'm a virgin," she said, thrusting the hated words out. "I don't want to be one anymore. But... time is running out."

Draco's eyes widened.

"So... I was hoping you could help me out. By sleeping with me."

Stunned, Draco took her hand and gently brought it to his lips for his kiss. When he lowered her hand, his face was anguished.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "But I don't think I should."

* * *

As Hermione self-predicted, the next few hours were very awkward.

She stood up, shrugged her bag on and headed back to the road, ignoring Draco's requests for her to wait. She didn't want him to see her flushed face, the irritating tears pricking at the corner of her eyes, nor sense the heavy, lead-like pain in her heart. A new pain, this time.

Draco gave her time to pull herself together, then he joined her in silence for the walk back to Hohenschwangau. She didn't want to talk, and although he had a million questions for her, now wasn't the time to ask them.

* * *

They boarded the train, and sat across from each other over a fold-out table. Hermione rooted around in her bag for her book, opened it, and started to read, oblivious to the changing landscape that was picking up pace outside the train.

Oh, no, Draco thought. You're not going to ignore me for the duration of this trip, missy. He cleared his throat.

Hermione ignored him.

"Hermione," he said, deliberately using her first name, "we can't go on like this forever."

The hands holding her book shook.

He cast a subtle silencing spell over them and leaned forward. "I need to know why you asked me, and you need to know why I said no."

Her knuckles were white. She wasn't letting go of that book in a hurry.

"So, I'll go first then," Draco said. "Does that book you're reading have a "woman loses her virginity" scene in it?"

After a while, Hermione's curls bobbed up and down.

"Does the woman have many orgasms and enjoys herself at every stage?"

Another jerky bobbing of her curls.

Draco sighed. "A woman's first time is usually awful, Granger. It's messy and painful and awkward. Now, as fabulous as I am in bed" – no reaction from Hermione – "I can't promise that your first time won't be any better. It's something that gets better with time, and familiarity, and care. In short" – he pulled her book down so he could look into her startled eyes" – I don't want to hurt you, Hermione. I won't watch pain filling your eyes and know I'm responsible for causing it."

She swallowed hard, then looked out of the window.

"Say we did sleep together," Draco continued, "what then? Do we go back to being friends? Colleagues? Remain as lovers? Or friends with benefits? What if I meet another witch? I'm not sure if you've thought this through. But if you have, then please talk to me."

"It was just something I wanted to try before I died," Hermione started, then trailed off.

"Which brings me to my biggest concern of all," Draco admitted. "What are the odds that your heart may give out during sex? Because if there's any chance, I'm not killing you, Hermione. No way. You need to live for as long as possible."

Hermione's throat worked, and she slowly dissolved into tears.

Draco slid into the seat next to her, and wrapped his arms around her. She buried her face in his shoulder and silently sobbed, while he stared out of the window, feeling like the biggest bastard in the world.

* * *

**Later **

"That was the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," Hermione whispered, her hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate.

"Eh?"

"'I need to live for as long as possible.'"

Draco took a sip of his coffee. "Well, you do. There's no way I can complete my year away without you."

She smiled.

"About what you said earlier," she gulped, "about how much I'd thought about it... I'm not asking to be your regular lover or girlfriend. We have different paths in life. But I was kind of hoping we could, um, try a few times until it worked, as it were."

Draco nodded cautiously.

"And as for my heart..." she paused, blushing furiously. "I've, um, had orgasms with no lingering effects. And I could always take some of the potion beforehand, to be safe."

Draco smirked, imagining Hermione touching herself – oh damnit, he just got hard again.

"Well," he said slowly, "that sounds reasonable."

Hermione put down her cup. "Does that mean" –

"We'll give it a try."

Hermione smiled, and they clinked their cups together.

I hope to Merlin I'm doing the right thing, Draco prayed.

* * *

**A/N: no Dramione sex yet... but soon, it will come to pass**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: The next couple of chapters will be on the short side.**

* * *

"We'll give it a try," Draco said.

* * *

**Mosel region, Germany**

The twisty, turny River Mosel meandered for two hundred and fifty kilometres, from its origin in France (where it preferred to be called by its French name, Moselle) to its final destination: the mighty River Rhine. If it was a race car track, Formula One drivers would have wept with joy at the surfeit of hairpin turns this serpentine river made, sometimes doubling back completely on itself, as it navigated the Mosel Valley.

Along its banks, picture-postcard villages sprawled, shyly showing off their centuries-old buildings, often painted in bright pastel colours (which sounds like a contradiction but makes sense in this region). Often, a castle or two stood guard behind them on the hills, affording glorious views for those intrepid enough to take a wander up the many flights of stairs to their turrets.

Brightly-painted barges bobbed alongside the riverbanks, home to those who spurned bricks and mortar, preferring the sound of creaking wood and gentle laps of river water instead. Hermione was keen to see what one looked like inside, but Draco couldn't find one available for hire. Not that he looked that hard. He was a flyer, an air-dweller, not a sea-creature. Seven years of living in a dormitory with an all-access view of the Black Lake had made him a little leery of the sights and sounds of sea living.

But wine was their prize – Riesling wine, to be exact. And the best of the absolute best was to be found in this valley.

* * *

In their Muggle disguises again (not so much a chore for Hermione, obviously), they met a chap called Kaspar, who'd expressed an interest in selling his vineyard that sprawled downhill and galloped to the village's edge. He was getting on in years, and alas, had no children to pass the business on to, and he and his Mathilde were rather keen on spending their twilight years chugging slowly down the Mosel in their very own barge, to see the sights along the way.

All this information Hermione and Draco received in the first five minutes of their meeting. He was quite the sharing type.

He took his guests on a tour of his vineyard, showing them the machinery used to process grapes into wine. All his grapes were hand-picked, he said proudly, more out of necessity than by choice, since the deceptively-angular hill slopes meant it was too dangerous for fruit picking machinery to be used.

Hermione nodded and asked questions and made copious notes, while Draco tried to stave off boredom. He wasn't fussed about how wine was made, as long as it got made. Once again, he silently thanked Merlin that Hermione was paying attention, otherwise his father would be so pissed off by his lack of results he'd order him back home. Where, no doubt, Pansy would descend upon him like a Valkyrie.

* * *

Afterwards, Kaspar took them to look at his vines. Standing at the top of the hill, the neat rows of budding greenery looked like jewels, sparkling in the sun.

"Now, watch your step," kind Kaspar warned Hermione. "The soil, it is a little loose in parts."

Draco, however, was out of earshot. Something had caught his eye, and he'd wandered off to investigate.

"Hey, Granger! Come and look at – shhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiitttttttt!"

And before Hermione and Kaspar's astonished eyes, Draco disappeared from view as he tumbled down the hill, only coming to a stop with the help of a sturdy wooden post that started off a row of vines.

* * *

Hermione had hoped the only thing that got dented during Draco's ignominious tumble was his pride, but as she and a fretting Kaspar discovered, after carefully making their way down to discover him tangled up in the vines and the wires they grew on, that he'd wrenched his ankle and suffered a rather gasp-worthy smack to his back with the wooden post.

"It's okay, Kaspar," Hermione reassured the old dear, who was imagining all hopes of a sale vanishing off down the Mosel, never to be seen again, "nothing's broken. He just needs some first aid and a lie down."

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHEEEERRRRRR!" Draco moaned from among the vines, startling the bejesus out of the poor man.

"He's just pretending. He loves being the centre of attention," Hermione said firmly, while giving Draco a look that Professor Snape would have been grudgingly impressed by.

Kaspar nodded uncertainly. "If you say so."

And with Hermione's help, they freed Draco from his botanical prison. Then they helped the moaning, groaning, blonde idiot back up the hill to Kaspar's ancient truck. Whose springs needed replacing.

* * *

**Later, in the village **

Poor Kaspar was determined not to let his guests leave the region with a bad taste in their mouths (even though it was Draco's damn fault for not watching where he put his clodhoppers), so he insisted on driving the pair into town and to the local doctor for assessment and patching up.

If Draco was putting it on a bit while he was tangled up in the vines, he was in spectacular pain by the time Kaspar's old clanger rattled up to the _Arztpraxis._ Even Hermione was starting to show concern behind the confident face she put on for Kaspar's sake.

Merlin be cursed, he was _really_ regretting leaving his wand at the hotel. What he could have done with it in the presence of a Muggle, he wasn't sure, but he was certainly not a fan of just lying in the truck's back seat, being bounced from pillar to post as they journeyed along a road that seemed to be comprised of nothing but potholes.

But they made it to their destination in one piece, and Draco soon lay on the doctor's examination table in magical impotence and suffered his ministrations as best he could. After strapping Draco's ankle and prodding his back to see where Draco yelped, the doctor wrote a prescription for some pain killers - and then Draco was free to hobble home.

Fortunately, 'home' was in a hotel that was located in the village, close to the _Arztpraxis_. Leaving Hermione to soothe poor Kaspar's nerves and sort out the business necessities, he slowly made his way into the hotel and (thank Salazar for lifts!) headed to his room.

A few minutes later, Hermione appeared at his door, wand in hand. "Do you want me to magically treat you or will you stick with the Muggle method?"

She asked? Why did she even have to ask?

"Fix me!" he groaned.

* * *

Draco's ankle was easy enough to fix, leaving it somewhat tender and swollen but he could move it around. By morning, it should be as good as new.

His back, however, was a beast of another colour. Hermione tried a number of spells, but, stubbornly, it didn't react. The problem, Hermione sighed, after the umpteenth attempt, was that Draco's back needed a potion, and she didn't have the wherewithal to hand.

"Shall I get your prescription filled for you?" she offered instead.

"Mh-hmm," Draco mumbled, nearly overcome by the day's excitement. It seemed like this day was coming to an early end for him.

* * *

Indeed, when Hermione returned, Draco was asleep. Or passed out.

She checked. Asleep.

She set the pills down on his bedside table and poured a glass of water for him.

She realised this was the first time she saw him sleeping.

She gently brushed his hair back from him forehead, officially checking to see if he had a temperature. Asleep, he looked so...

Something stirred within her, low in her tummy.

Slowly, she leaned over his face – but just before her lips touched his, she chickened out and kissed his forehead instead. Then she backed out of his room.

* * *

Later, as Hermione got ready for bed, she went over the day's events in her mind.

Now that Draco was safe and sound, she turned her thoughts to herself.

She was pretty shocked when Draco cartwheeled down the hill. And she was very worried that he'd badly injured himself.

And then, she helped Draco up the hill with Kaspar's help, which took some effort.

And when the doctor confirmed Draco just had a couple of sprains but nothing that would seriously maim him forever, she felt great relief.

Her heart had been subjected to an extraordinary workout, by her standards. She'd had a shock, and she had a cardio workout. Two things her Mediwizard warned her to avoid at all costs.

So why did she feel all right?


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Happy New Year, readers! Here's my first chapter of the new decade.**

* * *

**Wroclaw, Poland **

"We'll give it a try," Draco said.

* * *

Hermione threw caution to the wind and booked one hotel room for them both. Draco approved. As in, he approved the booking and costs, naturally. But he also approved of her decision. And when he saw it, he also approved of their room.

The hotel Hermione found was modern opulence hidden behind exquisite art nouveau architecture. Their room was large and spacious with high, sloping ceilings and floor-length curtains that ruffled in the breeze.

A sleek bath sat invitingly in the same room, and a modernised chaise longue faced the floor-to-ceiling windows. Draco glanced at it – then his imagination took flight, picturing his very own naked self sitting on it, with an equally-naked Hermione astride him, rising and falling over his body as his hands gripped her hips –

He noticed Hermione standing a little way off, also staring at the chaise. Their eyes met, and then she decided she had forgotten to do a few things.

Draco snagged her hand before she dashed off to count the dust bunnies under the bed. "Nervous, perhaps?" he smirked.

As he hoped, she rolled her eyes and sniffed. "Nothing at all to be nervous about, right?" she challenged.

"Nothing at all," he agreed. "Just lie back and enjoy the ride."

"Oh, Godric!"

Draco displayed himself on the chaise, crossing his legs at the ankles and putting his hands behind his head. "Fancy a pash?" he winked.

"You fancy yourself, more like."

"You wound me." Draco placed his hand over where he thought his heart was. "But in all seriousness, we're not skipping the entree and diving straight into the main course. Or dessert, as it were."

"Really?" Hermione asked, eyes narrowed. "What do you taste like, specifically?"

He grinned and crooked a finger. "See for yourself."

"I meant in reference to another part of your anatomy."

"So did I."

Hermione threw up her hands in surrender. "I give up!"

Draco laughed. "I was kidding, of course." Then he sobered and cast slow, sexy eyes over her form. "You look really beautiful when you get pissed off."

The look in his eyes made Hermione swallow her retort. "Really?" she asked again, lacing the word with a good deal of scepticism.

"You do. You transform from a girl who prefers to blend into the shadows into a woman that promises... the unexpected."

Hermione gaped at him. Sounded like some actual thought had gone into his statement. "Is that... good?"

She swore that his silver-grey eyes darkened. He gracefully rose from the chaise. Stepping carefully towards her, he said one, simple word.

"Yeah."

That funny tingling feeling in her tummy decided to revisit. Her colour heightened, and she looked away.

A long, cool finger gently touched her cheek and turned her face back around. Now his, and hers, were only centimetres away.

He leaned in even closer, infinitely slowly. More than enough time for Hermione to head for the hills. But she stayed her ground; and her eyes fluttered closed.

His lips met hers... so gently, she wasn't one hundred percent sure anything had happened.

Then he stepped away.

Huh?

Hermione opened her eyes. "Is that it?" she sputtered.

He shrugged. "It is if you want."

Oh, damn him and his unreasonable reasonableness! Where did the arrogant prat with the dragon-thick skin who laughed off every insult she lobbed at him go?

She squared up to him. "As it so happens," she countered, it's not."

"No?"

"No!"

Draco nodded. Then he pulled Hermione close, and her world was never the same again.

* * *

He was the perfect height. Taller than Hermione, but not too tall that she'd develop a crick in her neck from too much kissing of a certain Draco Malfoy.

He had the perfect body. Her arms acted of their own accord, wrapping around his neck. He pulled her even closer together, so close that not an ounce of air could squeeze between them.

Her chest pressed against his – and it felt good.

One of her legs slid naturally between his own – and it also felt good.

Her hips pressed against an object of considerable length and growing hardness, and oh my gods it felt very good indeed.

But it was his lips, his mouth, his woodsy, sharp scent and his _nearness _that had her scrambling to hold on to her sanity. This time, when they connected, he was firm against her mouth, and clever, too – capturing her upper lip with his and tugging it gently. But when he did the same to her bottom one, that funny, fuzzy feeling in the pit of her stomach spread throughout her body, and she may have possibly, just slightly, moaned. A little bit.

Draco stroked her cheek with his thumb. Of their own accord, her lips opened, and omigod.

* * *

She _had _been kissed before, once. At school. With a red-haired oaf in Gryffindor who thought he was Merlin's gift to witchkind because he played Keeper in their quidditch team. He approached her in a darkened corner of a school dance in the Great Hall with his mouth already open, reminding her, and not in a good way, of a lamprey. (To be honest, there's probably no good way one would view a lamprey, the ugly, many-fanged, slimy sucking things). And before Hermione could scuttle off to the safety of her dorm room, the lamprey, er, boy, completely enclosed her mouth between his rubbery lips, and sucked away.

Oh, if only it ended there.

But when Hermione tried to shove him away and forced her mouth open so she could give him a piece of her mind, his thick, leathery tongue slimed its way between her lips, seemingly intent on bushwacking a trail to her tonsils.

She had to stomp on his instep and shove him in the chest as hard as she could before the tongue, lips and copious quantities of boy saliva retreated.

Viciously wiping her face with her arm, she snarled "Disgusting boy! Don't ever come near me again!"

Then she spun around and stormed out of the dance – but not quickly enough for her to overhear the ginger oaf bark "Dried-up old spinster if ever I saw one!" to his cackling mates.

Happily, she now had a better memory to replace that festering cancer of an embarrassment with.

* * *

Draco explored her mouth with skill, but he was more interested in encouraging her to explore him. A little uncertainly, she trekked into unchartered territory, encouraged by the moan that escaped, unbidden, from within him.

She was rather enjoying this new foray into intimacy when Draco moaned again – with regret, this time. Pulling gently away, he dropped feather-light kisses on her lips - and one on her forehead - before stepping away altogether.

"We need to stop," he admitted in answer to her furrowed brows. "Before we get carried away."

Hermione's gaze fell to the not-so-insignificant bulge around his groin. Wowser. "Was that me?" she whispered.

He sent her a lopsided grin. "Oh, yeah."

She sat on the bed. "I've never done that before."

"I assure you, you have done it before. You've just never noticed."

She blushed, which didn't help Draco's erection any. Hermione was super cute when she blushed.

"Um... d-do you want to continue?" she stammered.

Draco couldn't deny he wasn't tempted. But his need was becoming urgent, and he'd vowed he wouldn't touch her before he had a good wank beforehand. To take the edge off.

Instead, he smiled and said "I'll take a raincheck for tonight, if I may."

With pink cheeks, Hermione nodded shyly.

"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me," Draco said, jerking a thumb in the bathroom's direction, "I need to see a man about a horse."

When he disappeared from view, Hermione fell back onto the bed and stared at the sloping ceiling.

Daring to dream.

* * *

In the bathroom, Draco leaned his forehead against the closed door while trying to will his erection away. His usual tricks weren't working.

She's gonna be death of me, he rued, as he undid his jeans.

* * *

**Outside **

_"What?"_ Draco roared.

"Keep your voice down. And, to repeat, we're looking for gnomes."

"Why, for the love of Salazar? We have plenty of them at home ripping up everyone's gardens!" Draco said this part in a quieter voice. A slightly quieter one.

Hermione sighed. "Wroclaw's Dwarves are part of what makes Wroclaw's history unique," she began. "They represent the anti-communist underground movement that existed when Poland was run by a communist government. The dwarf was their symbol. Today, hundreds of little bronze statues are dotted all over the city."

"So, they're not alive and don't wreak havoc in wizarding households?"

"No, Draco. They're inanimate objects that sit there and do bugger all."

"But if they sit there and do bugger all, what's the point of looking for them?"

"Because it's a nice way of walking through the city. Oh, look! There's one!" Hermione stopped by a weathered bronze statuette of a dwarf holding a suitcase and clutching a ticket in the other.

Draco eyed the dwarf with a distinct lack of interest.

Hermione smiled smugly. "Did I mention we're a going to have a competition to find the most dwarves?"

Oh, damn and blast the woman! Draco groaned to himself. Trust her to figure out his Achilles heel when it came to competitions. "What's the prize?" he asked suspiciously.

Hermione leaned in close to his ear. "The winner decides what we do next," she purred.

Ooh. Good prize.

"Are you in?" Hermione held out her hand.

"We certainly are," he replied, shaking hands.

"Excellent. Oh! I found another one! Better catch up, Malfoy, you're already down two!"

And with a laugh, Hermione was off down the road.

* * *

**Later that evening **

"Surely you're not sulking, Ms Granger?" Draco wandered into their room from the bathroom, ruffling his hair.

Hermione sat on the bed, adjusting the straps on her shoes. "No," she mumbled. "It's just embarrassing to lose a competition that you invented." She hopped off the bed and stood up. "Anyway, is this appropriate for our evening activity?"

She wore a v-neck, loose-fitting white blouse with khaki capris and black high heels. Her curls tousled around her face and she wore bold red lipstick. Draco pulled out his own shirt to cover his inconvenient erection at the mere sight of her.

"Not too shabby, Granger," he winked, recovering.

She grabbed her handbag and looped an arm through his. "So, we're on a Polish vodka taste-testing trip?" she asked as they headed out of the hotel. "I'm sure there's a valid reason why."

Draco smirked. "Because Polish vodka is among the best in the world, and there are very many types of flavours. In fact, you could say that vodka is part of Polish identity."

"All right, I'm game," said Hermione. "But I warn you, I don't really drink that much."

* * *

**Some hours later**

Well, she wasn't kidding, Draco ruminated, heading rather unsteadily back to the hotel with an unconscious Hermione slung over his shoulder. On the other hand, it didn't take her long to discover her favourite Polish vodka – cherry-flavoured _Krupnik_. In fact, he barely noticed that she was knocking back shots three to one against his lemon-flavoured _Soplica _until she swivelled around to hop off her bar stool and fell, giggling, into his lap. And stayed there.

Ah, well, he thought, in the lift up to their room, at least we have plenty of Pepper-Up potion.

But as for making love to this beautiful, smart, infuriating, funny woman for the first time: sadly, not tonight.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: I'm immensely sorry about the delay in updating. Still struggling with thyroid problems and whatnot, and I spend more time being tired than getting anything done. Still, I've cranked out a reasonable number of words for this chapter, so I hope you'll forgive me and enjoy.**

**There's some very pale Dramione lemon in this chapter – actually, I don't know much about the Rule of Lemon (if someone can enlighten me, that would be great). Is second base worth a lemon mention?**

* * *

"We'll give it a try," Draco said.

* * *

**Transylvania, Romania **

The road to the castle was narrow, treacherous and hella steep. Draco wasn't concerned; the thestrals pulling the carriage were sure-footed enough to know their way up the steep, winding incline. At least, he presumed they did – the carriage and accompanying thestrals were owned by his good mate's family - they who owned the castle at the top of this almost impossibly-passable road.

However, Hermione wasn't prepared to put her faith in the invisible clip-cloppers, and it eventually dawned on Draco that it wasn't a coincidence that each time a segment of crumbly road broke off and sailed merrily down the mountainous cliff, Hermione visibly flinched.

"You okay?" he asked.

Hermione glared at him. Then she threw her pride down the cliff and flung herself into his arms. She was shaking, to his surprise.

"Not a fan of heights, then?"

Her curls bounced around his face as she shook her head with vehemence.

His arms wrapped snugly around her waist. "I've done this trip before," he soothed. "And I'm still alive. See?"

She huffed, rather weakly, and didn't let go.

"Well, while you're visiting this part of the carriage," he suggested, "would you care to make out? You know, for distraction's sake?"

"No!" came the blunt response.

Draco didn't mind. She was clasped tight in his arms, after all.

* * *

At last, their carriage pulled up at the imposing entrance of a magnificent Gothic castle, with towers and turrets so tall the tops of them disappeared into the low-lying clouds that successfully hid the mini citadel from the view of intrepid, Hollywood-vampire-seeking Muggle tourists.

Draco's Slytherin dorm mate, Oleksandr Tkachenko, heir apparent to this colossal pile, was waiting at the entrance and greeted Draco with a smile, a hug and kisses on each cheek. He was even happier to spy a shaky but lovely young woman grip Draco's hand tightly as she did her best to descend from the carriage without vomiting or sinking to the gravelled ground in desperate, grateful relief.

"Who 'dis?" Olek telegraphed Draco with his eyebrows over Hermione's hair as she put one foot carefully in front of the other and took a cautious deep breath.

"Fuck off!" Draco eyebrowed back.

Olek allowed himself a slight roll of the eyes. Trust Malfoy to snag the most gorgeous women. Pity. He could have done with a gorgeous young lady about now. In fact, Olek's desperate need for a companionable companion was the reason why Malfoy and this vision of currently-queasy loveliness were parked outside his door.

"Mademoiselle!" he cheered, grasping a surprised Hermione by the upper arms and impressing upon her the traditional greeting of his people. "Welcome to Castle Mikónescu!* I trust your journey was horrific? I'm so sorry about the state of the access road. It's to keep the Muggle tourists away."

Hermione stared at the cocky, curly, dark-haired young man with twinkling black eyes and very good teeth. "Um, it wasn't as bad as all that," she lied.

Olek laughed. "Please, there is no need to be polite with me! Any friend of Malfoy's is a friend of mine. I hope."

Hermione giggled, which had Draco narrowing his eyes.

Olek ignored him. "You two make such a stunning couple, I must say," he said to Hermione. "I must know: where did you meet? How long have you been together? A poor singleton like me must live vicariously through the likes of my old school chum, here."

"Hermione is my business partner," Draco snapped. "And by the way, Hermione went to the same school as us. Gryffindor House."

Olek's jaw dropped. "No way! I really wish I hadn't listened to Snape's bullshit about not giving Gryffindors the time of day at school." He turned to Hermione. "Just think, you and I could have been happily married by now! I believe I shall sue Snape for false representation."

This time, Hermione laughed out loud. She couldn't help it. Olek was a joker, through and through.

Draco seethed behind the pair as they entered the castle.

* * *

**Inside Draco's bedroom**

Draco surveyed his sumptuous bedroom (complete with dramatic four-poster bed and wall sconces on huge stone walls) with a pout. "Separate bedrooms?" he grizzled.

Hermione didn't look up from examining the ornate wash-stand in a corner of the room. "You told Olek we were business partners," she pointed out. "Business partners don't normally share a bed."

Oh, so it was _his_ fault? Hmph. Figures. He leaned against the bedroom door. "What if I have a nightmare?"

"I can hardly see how I could help, even if I was asleep next to you."

"What if I get lost in the middle of the night?"

Hermione held up her wand. _"Lumos,"_ she sing-songed.

Draco strode forward and scooped Hermione up in his arms. He headed to the bed and dropped her among the luxurious silken bedspreads and furs (real ones, I'm sorry to say. It gets jolly cold at night up there). She landed with a squeak, then Draco followed, draping himself all over her body.

"What if I desperately need to feel your body writhing against mine?" he murmured, centimetres away from her lips.

With pink cheeks, Hermione conceded that she could possibly help in that particular instance.

"Besides - just because we have two bedrooms doesn't mean we have to use both bedrooms, right?" Draco cajoled.

Hermione flexed her pelvis, and felt it move against something long and hard. Draco whimpered, and the sound drove her –

"Agreed," she whispered, and pulled his head down for her kiss.

* * *

**Later**

Hermione was flushed, trembling, and not quite herself at all. Their kiss on the bed led to some of this, a bit of that, and fair bit of removed clothing. She didn't feel at all embarrassed, even though she was lying on a Transylvanian castle four-poster with her shirt and bra removed, not to mention the buttons and zip of her jeans undone. Draco removed each garment gently and solemnly, looking into her eyes for the slightest sign of hesitation.

He removed his shirt, too, to even things out a bit. How strange, though! Hermione had seen his bare chest plenty when they went swimming, but now, his body seemed so new. Like the way his collarbones shifted under his skin. And how he had a small cluster of freckles underneath his left pectoral muscle that looked like a meteor shower. The hair on his skin felt wiry and warm...

When Draco pulled the bra away from Hermione's body, he stilled; then muttered a word so softly she couldn't hear it. Before she even thought about freezing and demanding to know what he said, he put his lips to a dusky pink nipple and suckled it.

Ye gods! Hermione almost torqued off the bed. Omigods, how could that feel so damn good?

"Again!" she gritted, writhing against his groin for all she was worth and not even registering what she was doing.

Above her, Draco smiled, then kissed her deeply. "As you wish," he winked, and plied her other nipple with his lips and tongue.

Hermione moaned and gripped his head with her hands. She was wildly turned on. At least, she presumed she was, having not really experienced this sort of thing before. In such circumstances, anyway. She wanted more of his touch, more of his mouth and hands on her body. She wanted all of her skin to touch his. She wanted to make him feel the way he was making her feel. Her very molecules felt like they were thrumming inside her body.

"Draco" – she gasped, writhing.

"Yes, love?" he whispered, watching her flushed and beautiful face, his breath laboured.

"I want" –

But what Hermione wanted, Draco, sadly, never got to find out, because just at that critically romantic moment, the bedroom door burst open and an eleven-year-old girl sailed through, calling "Draco! Draco! Olek told me you were here at last!"

...and everything kind of ground to a halt after that.

* * *

Hermione shrieked and dove towards her clothes.

Draco sighed and reached for his shirt. "Iulia Tkachenko," he gritted, "it's not good manners to barge in through a door unannounced."

Dark-haired, bright-eyed Iulia, craning her neck to see who was hiding behind Draco, shrugged. "If you didn't want people entering your room, you should have locked it."

Draco's jaw dropped. Bested in logic by an eleven-year-old, for Slytherin's sake!

He hopped off the bed and headed to the excitable girl, leaning down and kissing her on the cheeks before giving her a hug. "Are you sure you're not part beanstalk? You've shot up since I last saw you."

Iulia giggled, then strode confidently over to the bed and held out her hand to a flushed and dishevelled Hermione. "I'm Iulia Tkachenko," she said formally, in accented English.

Still humiliated, Hermione nonetheless took Iulia's hand. "Hermione Granger," she replied with the little dignity she had left.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Iulia solemnly replied. Then, throwing formality to the four winds, added "Are you Draco's wife?"

"Uh – n-no, I'm Draco's business partner," Hermione replied lamely, wishing she knew the area well enough to disapparate somewhere.

"Oh!" Iulia replied, surprised. "Is it a kissing business?"

"Right, that's enough!" Draco said, heading over to the four-poster to nip this particular conversation in the bud. "How are you finding Hogwarts, then? Hermione used to go there, too."

"Really?" Iulia dimpled. "It's a smashing place! It's a little smaller than this castle, but that's okay. I'm learning loads of new things, and I've made lots of friends, and I'm the best of my year already in flying, thanks to you and Olek, even better than the _boys, _and" –

"What House were you sorted into?" Draco interrupted, knowing that once Iulia got started on a monologue, it was almost impossible for her to stop.

Iulia rolled her eyes. "Slytherin, of course," she admonished. Then she turned to Hermione. "Were you in Slytherin, too?"

"No," Hermione replied, starting to like this bright, quicksilver girl who didn't seem to mind in the least that she caught her brother's friend and some random woman making out. "I was in Gryffindor."

Iulia's eyes rounded and she glanced at Draco. "Really?" she asked. She thought for a moment, then said "Actually, I have a boyfriend – you're not to tell Olek or my parents, Draco! – and he's in Gryffindor. We met on the train." Then her face drooped. "But we have to keep it a secret because Slytherins aren't supposed to associate with Gryffindors. Or with any of the other Houses, come to think of it. But when I asked Professor Snape why, he just glared and sent me to detention for asking silly questions. And then I got into trouble with my parents for being sent to detention."

Draco sighed. "Sounds like nothing's changed."

Hermione, meanwhile, was thinking. "In my job – actually, my previous job," she corrected, stealing a look at Draco, "I used to correspond with Professor McGonagall on archiving matters. We developed a good rapport. Now that she's Headmistress of Hogwarts, maybe I could write her a carefully-worded letter about making sure inter-House unity is promoted in _all_ of the Houses, as per Ministry of Magic requirements?"

Now, Iulia's eyes shone like stars. "Could you really?" she breathed.

"Sure," Hermione smiled. "Professor McGonagall is a very smart witch. Once she gets an idea of what's really going on in Slytherin House, I'm sure she'll come up with a way to get Professor Snape on side." Or needle his scrawny arse so much about it he'll ditch his snobbery just to get some peace, Hermione thought, but she didn't say that bit out loud.

"Your Dad's still on the Hogwarts school board, isn't he?" Iulia asked Draco. "I think I've seen his curtain of white hair whipping around a corridor or two."

"He is," Draco said cheerfully, "and he'll hate it, therefore I support Hermione's resolution one hundred percent!"

Hermione's smile and blush made Draco's heart thump in a funny way.

Pleased, Iulia changed the subject. "Are you looking forward to the Ball tonight?" she asked the pair. "I'm only allowed to go for a short time." She sulked. "It's such a pain being young! I'm always missing out on the fun stuff!"

"What's the Ball in aid of?" Hermione asked.

Draco smirked. "It's a match-making Ball for Olek," he said. "His mama is getting a little tired of his play-wizard ways."

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed. "Poor bloke."

"I wouldn't grin so much if I were you," Iulia warned Draco. "Surely your time to marry is fast approaching."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Please don't remind me. Why families like ours can't leave their children to fall in love with someone beats the hell out of me."

"Well, I'm marrying for love," Iulia declared stoutly. "So this arranged marriage crap had better be out of fashion by the time I become of age!"

"Language, Iulia," Draco murmured, but he couldn't argue with her rhetoric.

What a scarily logical child.

* * *

**A/N: The Ball is in swing next chapter. Will it end in smiles or tears?**

**Thanks again for your patience.**

* * *

*I just made the name up. I have no idea if it means anything.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: pictures of the mentioned dresses are on my Tumblr (Nevernike)**

* * *

**Ball time **

Draco knocked on Hermione's bedroom door (which he privately considered as her dressing room) and was almost bowled over by the beauty of the young lady who shyly opened it after downing a pre-emptive dose of potion.

Hermione wore a daring – for the wizarding world; and who knows, maybe even the Muggle world? – two-piece gown: a full, floor-length skirt in bronze taffeta with a narrow, black crystal waist and a cap-sleeved, high-necked fitted top in nude material that reached to just above her waist. Adorning the top were many, many jet beads attached to the nude backing, branching out and swirling in intricate patterns. It was a mesmerising mix of stern Victorian prudishness and sultry sensuality.

Her hair was loosely pulled back into a low bun and her few loose curls looked ready to dance the night away.

"Is it okay?" Hermione asked, fidgeting with one of the beads. "You're unusually quiet."

"Dear Merlin..." Draco breathed, having regained his faculties. "You look stunning."

"Oh," Hermione replied, now fiddling with a curl, unsettled by Draco's intensity. "Well... that's good, then."

"I really want to kiss you," Draco almost-stammered. Malfoys don't stammer, you see.

"Of course you can!" she laughed. "Only, take it easy on my lipstick."

Draco approached, then ran his hands slowly up her bare arms, giving her goosebumps. He tipped Hermione's chin up with one graceful finger, then slowly, gently kissed her – even more gently than their first kiss.

But for some reason, it shook Hermione to her bones.

They parted; then without meeting Draco's eyes, she put on her robes (draughty castle) and they headed, arm in arm, to the ballroom.

* * *

**The ballroom **

They found Iulia almost straight away, seated at the most prominent of the tables that lined the sides of the immense, stone-walled ballroom. Olek was dancing with a young lady on the busy floor, and Iulia was looking supremely bored, as the only other people at the table were her parents and various toadying adults from the wizarding locality. She brightened up when she saw Draco and Hermione approach.

"Thank Salazar you've arrived!" she squealed, hopping up to give Draco and Hermione a hug. "Oh, dear Merlin, Hermione, your dress is divine! I _so_ wish I could have worn something like that instead of this thing." She gestured at her dress with a pout.

Hermione examined Iulia's dress. Iulia wore a full-length deep red skirt, attached to a red taffeta bodice with lace over it. The dress had an overskirt made from the same lace, along with her elbow-length sleeves.

Iulia pulled at one of the sleeves with distaste. "I wanted my house-elf to change the colour to black," she confided, "but she said Mother insisted on this colour." She sighed. "Then she tried to curl her fingers with the hot curling tongs for disappointing me."

"Iulia, dear, don't fidget with your lovely dress." The gentle admonition came from the beautiful, dark-haired woman seated at the table next to an older, portlier version of Olek.

Iulia pulled a face (once her head was safely turned away). "It _scratches_," she mumbled, _sotto voce_.

Draco tried to tamp down his pride as he presented Hermione to the hosts. "Lord and Lady Tkachenko, may I introduce Miss Hermione Granger."

She bowed to them formally, as is required for pure-bred types.

"The business partner, I believe?" Lady Tkachenko murmured in a tone Hermione didn't know how to translate.

"Yes, my lady," Draco replied. "She is an immense asset to my work."

"Indeed," Lady Tkachenko breathed. Then: "Thank you both for coming to our little soirée. I do hope you'll both have a lovely time. In fact, Draco, you might even meet your future bride here! Won't your mother be pleased if that came to pass?"

Her laughter sounded like tinkling bells, Hermione concluded. Not like her own hearty laugh that sometimes ended with unladylike snorts.

Draco, meanwhile, turned a teensy shade of green – at the mention of marriage, or his mum, Hermione wasn't sure. But she was sure of one thing – she didn't like Lady Tkachenko very much.

So, she squared her shoulders and sat next to Lord Tkachenko, engaging in lively conversation with the chap, whom, she suspected, didn't get much say in the way of things, while Draco formally asked Miss Iulia if she would honour him with a dance.

Nothing but dust was left in Iulia's wake as she dragged Draco to the dance floor.

Hermione overheard Lady Tkachenko's gentle sigh of remonstration, but she paid it no mind.

* * *

Overall, the ball was a joyous event. Draco and Hermione spent most of it on the dance floor, dancing with each other, with Olek and Iulia, and other ladies and gentlemen that Hermione didn't know.

Hermione was having a lovely time. Draco kept careful eyes on her, presumably to make sure she didn't overdo it, but she did her best to ignore that. Olek was the perfect gentleman, filling her ears with funny observations about the guests, and making sure she was fed and watered enough. Probably trying to avoid the long line of hopeful misses desperate to become the next Lady Tkachenko. Judging by the twinkle in the incumbent Lord Tkachenko's eyes, perhaps the wrong lord was showing interest in the pretty and accomplished line-up.

Hermione danced again with Iulia, who'd decided that her best chance of not going to bed at the time her mother decreed was to stay out on the furthest side of the dance floor from her parents. So far, she'd managed to wrangle an extra half an hour.

Hermione was engrossed in learning a new dance from Iulia which was _all_ the rage at school, when - even over the boisterous music - she heard a familiar, infuriating voice.

"Drakie, DAHLING! I KNEW you'd be here!"

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, causing Iulia to cannon into her. "Oi!" she exclaimed, but clammed up when she saw Hermione's furious face.

"That fucking bitch!" she seethed, then shouldered her way past the dancers in a bid to get to the tables. Iulia, thrilled at the venom Hermione put into her swearwords, scurried close behind her. Shit was going down, and she didn't want to miss a single thing!

Draco was already upstanding and furious while Hermione and Iulia bushwacked their way out of the dancing throng. "Pansy," he spat, "haven't you been banned from polite society?"

Pansy Parkinson laughed, smoothing down the sides of her green, off-the-shoulder bodycon mermaid dress. She loved the way it seemed to make her boobs look like they'd been shoved up to shoulder height. _Everyone _was looking at them, she knew. Hmm. _Had_ she been banned from polite society? She didn't know. She never paid attention to such things.

"I'm here to look for a husband," she trilled. "This is a matchmaking ball, no? Well, here I am, eminently eligible, ready to meet some eligible wizards." She pressed a taloned finger to the lapel of Draco's robes. "Are you still eligible?" she purred.

Not for the first time today, Draco wished he could just shout from the rooftops that he and Hermione were a couple, so everyone could leave them the bloody hell alone.

But they weren't.

"After your behaviour at the French Embassy," Draco hissed, "I'm surprised you had the bottle to show your face here! You embarrassed yourself in front of most of European society! Many of whom are right here!"

"Pft!" Pansy was just like a duck – everything slid right off her back. "I'll have you know I received an invitation, so there, pouty face."

Draco stared at her, revolted – then he was distracted by a whirling dervish parting the sea of surprised dancers. A dervish consisting of a furious, bronze and black-beaded Hermione with an agog Iulia hot on her heels, craning around Hermione's skirt so as not to miss the action.

"I will handle her," Draco said tersely to Hermione. "Don't get overwrought."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I took precautions," she mouthed back. "And _don't_ tell me not to get overwrought!"

Pansy glanced at this shimmering bronze beauty, who was standing rather too close to her Drakie-Wakey. "Who the hell are you?" she snapped.

Iulia was thrilled. Actual, real drama was unfolding right before her eyes! She couldn't _wait _to tell the others at school!

But just as she was certain that shit was about to throw down, her mother materialised.

"It's time for bed, Iulia," she murmured.

"But motherrrrrrr!" Iulia wailed the lamentation song of her people (tweens).

"Elsie," Lady Tkachenko called over the sound of her daughter's complaints. In a trice, a house-elf in a summer gingham dress with bandaged fingers on one hand materialised, bowing so low her hawky nose nearly touched the floor.

"Y-yes, my lady?" she squeaked.

"Please escort Miss Iulia to her bedroom," Lady Tkachenko murmured. "It is past her bedtime."

"At once, my lady," Elsie replied. Iulia moaned and would have stamped her foot in vexation but she remembered just in time that she was a lady.

Olek rushed up with an anonymous blonde witch in tow. His collar was slightly askew. Her up-do was slightly listing to one side. "What's going on?" he asked of Iulia, whose arm was firmly clamped between Elsie's.

"Lady...green...Draco...fingernails...invitation...Hermione...handling it!" Iulia gasped out as Elsie whisked her out of the ballroom.

Confused, Olek searched out Draco and Hermione, and when the black-haired woman in a skin-tight green dress hove into view, he had a good idea of what the cause of the hubbub might be.

"Pansy," Olek announced in the same tone that he would have announced an acromantula into the ballroom. "What a surprise."

Pansy whirled around and smiled her anaconda smile when she clocked the second-most eligible bachelor in the room (after Drakie, of course). Pity Olek lived so far away from England, otherwise she might have given him serious consideration. Not many wizards had a castle, you know.

"Olek," she faux-simpered, holding out a hand for his reluctant kiss. "So lovely to see you again. And you needn't act so surprised, silly! I have an invitation!" She fished it out of her décolletage and flapped it under his nose.

Now Olek was very confused. He helped prepare the guest list, and he made it quite clear to his mother that Pansy Parkinson was not to be invited. He raised suspicious eyes to his mother, whose face was serene, as always.

"Miss Parkinson comes from a family with impeccable breeding," Lady Tkachenko stated in a voice just above a whisper.

Putting that to one side for dealing with later, Olek turned to Pansy. "I'm afraid there's been a mistake," he said woodenly. "I have to ask you to leave the premises."

"But – my invitation!" Pansy snapped.

Hermione drew out her wand and behold! The invitation disappeared. "It's been rescinded," she snapped. "Now take yourself and your cheap, tacky gown and get lost!"

Draco's mouth fell open. So did Olek's. Lady Tkachenko's lips drew together into a thin line. Lord Tkachenko watched the couples who were still dancing.

Pansy, with nothing to stuff back into her boobs, now recognised the beautiful girl. It was that sodding bitch from the Embassy ball! And possibly from school before that. She girded up her loins (hoicked up her tits, in a move that caught Lord Tkachenko's eye) and advanced upon the once-dowdy upstart.

"You, my dear, are going to regret what you just did," she snarled silkily.

Hermione smiled back, her blood fizzing. "I recall that you barely passed Defence of the Dark Arts at school," she retorted. "Let's see what sort of disaster you can conjure up, then!"

Pansy narrowed her eyes. Defence of the Dark Arts was a _boys' _subject, as far as she was concerned. All she wanted to learn was how to attract a rich husband, and there were precious few of _those_ lessons at Hogwarts. She knew she should have gone to Beauxbatons.

"This must be at least the second time you've Cinderella'd around a ball room in clothes clearly paid for by Drakie," she spat. "The 'services' you're providing him must be absolute top dollar." She ended that insult with an up-and-down inspection of Hermione's gown, a sneer clamped on her thin lips.

"You are out of line, Parkinson!" Draco snapped, and Olek clenched his fists in order to stop himself from drawing out his wand.

Hermione didn't care. "I know what I'm worth," she replied. "'Who can find a wife of noble character? She is far more precious than rubies.'"

The biblical remark sailed way over Pansy's coiffured head, but it made Draco pull up and stare at Hermione.

Pansy could feel herself coming a distinct second in the verbal wits exchange, so she stepped up close to Hermione and poked her in the chest so hard her fingernail cracked. "Stay out of my way, bitch!" she snarled in Hermione's pale face. "Drakie is _mine_, and I'll marry him when he gets back from his trip. He'll cast you off without a care, whether he's shagged you every which way or not. And don't try to trap him with a baby, either. He wasn't born yesterday."

Hermione's jaw clenched and her throat worked. Then she summoned up the last of her pride, lifted up her chin, and sailed silently out of the ballroom.

Draco gabbed Pansy's arm none-too-nicely and forced her around. "Too far, Pansy," he spat, his eyes burning cold fire. "Much, much too far."

Then he shoved her out of the way and disappeared after Hermione.

Lord Tkachenko and his son stepped up. "Miss Parkinson, your presence is not required here," Lord Tkachenko announced. "Please depart this castle immediately."

"But" – Pansy cast around for a supporter, to back her claims that she was most unfairly goaded by little more than a servant, but not a kind eye could she find. Even Lady Tkachenko found a spot on her skirt that was far more interesting than the gauche girl in the tarty dress.

"Hmph!" Pansy parked her chin in the air and departed the venue, trying to be as graceful as Hermione, but failing dismally.

Olek let out a pent-up sigh, then turned to his mother. "We will speak in the morning," he growled, in a voice with far more steel than Lady Tkachenko had ever heard in her son before.

Possibly for the first time in her life, Lady Tkachenko wondered if she had erred in inviting Miss Parkinson to the ball over her son's objections.

Then she cleared her mind. No, she couldn't be wrong. She was only doing what was best for her son.

* * *

**Hermione's room **

Draco first went to his bedroom in the hopes that Hermione was there, but she wasn't. So he backtracked his steps and knocked on Hermione's bedroom door. "Hermione?" he called. "Are you okay?"

No answer, but his instinct knew that she was there. He put his lips to the door again. "If you don't want to talk," he said, "that's fine, but at least let me know if you're okay."

This time, the door slowly creaked open on its own, and he stepped into her room.

The wall sconces were burning very low, and most of the room was in shadow. But Draco found Hermione standing by the large stained-glass window that overlooked the mountains below. Not a sound or a movement did she make.

Draco stood behind her and did what felt right: he wrapped his arms around her tense body and rested them on her waist. Slowly, and to his relief, he felt her spine unkink and relax.

"I took some potion before the ball," she replied woodenly. "I feel okay now."

"I'm glad," he whispered at her ear. "Gryffindor lioness."

He wasn't sure, but he thought she smiled. But then her shoulders trembled, her breath hitched, and she began to cry.

He turned her around and let her cry on his shoulder, slowly rubbing her back over the jet beads. Thinking thoughts he couldn't say out loud.

Eventually, he whispered "Want to get away from here?"

She nodded.

Draco kissed her wet cheeks and summoned a house-elf to speed up the packing process. He left an apologetic note for the Tkachenkos, grabbed their shrunk luggage and gathered Hermione to his side.

"Okay with side-along apparation?" he asked.

"Um" –

Draco bit the bullet, thought of his destination, and turned.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Okay, hold on to your electronic devices – the first Dramione lemon is here!**

* * *

**Somewhere**

**Early morning **

Hermione stirred. She was in a new bed, in a new, high-ceilinged room, and judging by the soft sounds outside, she was also in a new country.

Draco lay next to her in the large bed, still asleep. His bare shoulders and chest peeked out from pristine white linen sheets. It made her realise what she was wearing; to whit; nothing at all.

Her heart leapt in alarm. What happened the night before? She rubbed her temples, trying to remember.

Bits of it came wavering back.

Yesterday, they were at Olek's Get-Married-Or-Die-Trying ball in Transylvania. Then Pansy showed up, and there was a fight (Hermione blushed; how unladylike of her!); then she ended up crying on Draco's shoulder somehow. He side-apparated her somewhere dark; she didn't know or care where because she was too busy throwing up. Side apparition was not her cup of tea.

Draco helped her out of her gown – she could still feel the ghost of his cool fingers on her spine. Then she crawled into the bed Draco led her to… nude? No; she had a fuzzy memory of half-waking later on, irritated by the boning in the bra and the scratchiness of the panty lace. She wriggled out of them, plonked them on the floor, and zonked out.

She looked over the edge of the bed; they were right where she dropped them, just visible in the cool light licking around the edges of large wooden shutters at the other end of the room.

Standing, she wrapped a bed sheet around her body, making sure she didn't deprive Draco of linen. Heading to the large shutters, she unlatched one and opened it, revealing an ornate, beautifully-coloured stained glass French door. Coloured light spilled onto the mosaic floor.

Entranced, she opened the door and stepped into a terracotta courtyard, bordered with potted palms, birds of paradise and other exotic plants. Birds greeted the new day and each other above her. Over their chatter, she heard the _adhan._ A mosque was nearby.

Something else was nearby, and its pull was great. Crossing the courtyard, she found a little gate. Sand blew in through the wrought-iron trellis. Looking ahead, Hermione could barely believe her eyes.

An untamed ocean pounded the sand mere metres away from where she stood. Craggy rocks and succulents dotted the landscape. A tang of coffee, oranges and spices laced the early morning air. Warm salt air brushed her skin.

Hermione closed her eyes. Letting every one of her senses seek out stimuli, she eventually opened them, almost certain she'd worked out where they were.

"Morocco?" she breathed.

The sound of bare feet crossed the courtyard, and now-familiar arms wrapped around her from behind. "Casablanca, to be exact," Draco murmured by her ear.

She smiled, reaching up and running her fingers through his hair (rather brave of her, she thought). He kissed her wrist, tasting it with his tongue. A brief recollection of Robin Hood and Maid Marian flashed by her eyes.

"It's perfect," she whispered. "I know I'll love it here."

"I hope you do," he replied, dropping a gentle kiss to her jaw.

"Did I wake you?" Hermione asked, ever solicitous.

She felt his lips smile on her skin, but he said nothing.

Hermione searched inside herself for any sense of fear or nervousness; but all she found was peace; a certainty that it was time. The perfect time.

Desire unfurled from her tummy and rippled through her body.

She turned in his arms and faced him, her eyes darkening. The intensity of his gaze made her heart thump, so she focussed on his lips and the light stubble just beneath. It was her call.

She took a deep breath. "Have sex with me?" she asked.

He answered her with a slow, beautiful kiss, cradling her head in his hands as if it was the most precious thing in the world.

* * *

Eventually, the kiss ran its course; and as they pulled a small distance apart, Hermione noticed for the first time that Draco was nude. His sizeable erection had nowhere to hide, and it stood out proudly from his body.

Hermione's lips went dry. The last time she saw it, it was surging in and out of –

"Don't," Draco said in a low voice, reading her mind. "This is all about you."

With that, he collected her in his arms, sheet and all, and carried her to their bed.

* * *

Before Draco laid Hermione down on the bed, he slowly unwrapped the sheet from her, revealing all of her body to him for the first time. She did her best not to show her shyness, but under his serious, silent gaze, her cheeks heated treacherously.

When Draco finished his slow inspection of Hermione's body, he raised his eyes to her burning face. Brushing one of her cheeks with his thumb, he murmured "You're the most desirable woman I've ever seen. It's not a lie," he added when she feebly shook her head. He took one of her hands and pressed it to his erection. "This can't lie."

Hermione looked down at her hand, wrapping itself around his shaft as if it had a mind of its own. The hardness of it astonished her. She knew the hardness grew from increased blood flow to the organ; and it became soft when the blood returned to the body. But still. It was almost like magic.

His cock was warm, too, and the flesh moved over the hard tissue inside when she stroked it experimentally. Draco drew in a breath, and she looked up, alarmed that she'd hurt him, letting go as if it burned her.

His eyes were closed. "It's fine," he murmured on a somewhat goofy smile.

Emboldened, she touched him again.

Draco discovered that gentle, fleeting touches to his organ made for a glorious, crazy type of torture. He wanted a hand to stroke him firmly. Even better, a tight, wet channel to slide into, surrounded by a trembling body clinging to his, rising and falling with his movements. But he had to be patient.

Hermione was a mix of nerves, curiosity, passion and compassion. Just one look into her deep brown eyes and you could see her unguarded soul. Bedding her for the first time would be unlike anything Draco had experienced before.

This was serious.

He prayed he wouldn't fuck it up.

* * *

He took her hand and helped Hermione into the middle of the bed. Slowly, he moved over her – then she squinted as he dangled her bottle of potion between his fingers.

Hermione huffed. "I don't need" – she started; but when she looked into his eyes, she went silent, took the bottle from him and drank. Doing well to prevent her eyes from rolling at his over-mothering, she thought.

Draco tasted the last of the potion on her lips as he lowered his body down to hers. Her legs naturally parted to accommodate him. He settled between them, exploring her face with his lips and fingertips.

Hermione thrilled to his touch. Her body warmed and she wriggled beneath, wanting to become closer still. Her hands explored what she could reach of him: from his biceps to shoulders, then trailing down his back, running her thumbs along his spine; feeling his muscles react. Then she went for broke and grabbed two handfuls of his muscular buttocks, pulling his hips closer to hers.

Sensing her impatience, Draco moved down her body, palming and gripping her breast with one hand while applying his lips to the nipple of the other breast. She cried out in desire, gripping his hair to keep him in place.

He did so; but he trailed the other hand over her waist and hips to the juncture of her thighs, brushing his fingers through her curls until he found –

"Omigod!" Hermione gasped, bucking her hips.

Still at her breasts, Draco smiled and ventured a little lower with his fingers, encountering a promisingly wet entrance to her core. He'd give his left nut to spend an hour or two with his head between her legs, but he'll wait until she mastered the basics before introducing her to the pleasures of oral sex.

If she wants to keep having sex with him.

Murmuring to her and keeping a thumb on her clitoris, he eased a long finger inside her. Gods, she was wet. And hot. and tight. He very nearly disgraced himself, but he recovered in time and caught her lips in a heated kiss.

"More," she begged, too aroused to care how she sounded. To Draco, it was music to his ears, anyway.

He added another finger and gently pushed inside; and now he got a fairly good idea of how tight she was going to feel when he entered her. It thrilled and scared him in equal measure. If he hurt her...

Applying more pressure to her clitoris, Draco slicked his fingers in and out of her body, building up speed, watching her beautiful face as she drew closer to orgasm. Her body began to tremble, and a fine sheen of sweat filmed her body. She gripped his arm, the one that worked the hand that was drawing such a reaction; she didn't want him to stop or slow down. Her channel began to spasm.

"Come for me, love," he gritted out.

The words were barely spoken before Hermione wailed and her body stiffened – before shattering into the most intense orgasm she'd ever had in her life. To watch her move in the throes of orgasm was like watching poetry come to life. Draco was entranced – and he knew this couldn't be a one-off for him. He wanted to keep making Hermione react uninhibitedly over and over. For as long as she let him.

Resting on the bed, she rubbed her eyes before weaving her hands through her riotous hair. "Bloody hell," she gasped.

Draco grinned. "Fun?"

Hermione laughed. "Gods, yes."

Draco swallowed, then asked "Do you want to continue?"

She looked at his pensive profile, his messy hair, and – further down – his large, almost angry-looking erection. She realised that all this time he'd been concentrating on her, ignoring his own pleasure while she writhed and begged and orgasmed. She blushed.

Still – it was so _big..._

She took her courage by the horns. "I do," she said firmly. "If you want to," she tacked on.

Draco burst out laughing before sobering and thanking her for her consideration. He _accio'ed _a lubricant potion from his luggage over to the bed. Admittedly, he'd not used lubricant while entering a woman's pussy before, but he was dead serious about making this as painless as he could.

They kissed deeply, and as they drew apart, Hermione whispered "I trust you, Draco. Even if it hurts, it'll be okay."

Draco, kneeling between her legs, bit his lip, then opened his mouth – but found that the words busting a gut to breach his mouth were all inadequate. He unstopped the potion, poured some of the contents onto his hand, and applied it to his painfully hard cock.

"Argh!"

Hermione sat up. "Omigod, are you okay?" she gasped.

Draco nodded. "Cold," he bit out.

Hermione laughed and fell back onto the bed.

"If it's cold on me it will be cold inside you," Draco warned.

"Nah, your body will warm it up."

True enough, the lubricant was now a pleasant body temperature. Bloody swat, he smiled to himself.

His cock lay at her entrance. Draco steadied it with an unsteady hand. "Might be better if you close your eyes," Draco suggested. He didn't want to see her lose his self-control.

Hermione closed her eyes. And held her breath.

Draco prayed to Merlin, then entered her body.

* * *

With the lubricant's help, he was able to penetrate her quite deep. Her tight muscles gripped him without mercy, and he began to count backwards from one hundred in multiples of nine to keep himself from coming.

Once fully inside her, he whispered "You're doing so well, love. Now you tell me what to do. What you want."

With her eyes still screwed shut, she gritted "Stay there and don't move."

He did so, slowly feeling her body adjust to his intrusion.

Eventually, Hermione grabbed a pillow and pushed it underneath her hips. Her eyes snapped open. "Wow."

"Is that a good wow?"

"You know, I think it might be," she said thoughtfully. Then, noticing Draco's shaking arms and the beads of perspiration on his lip, she asked "Can you try moving? Slowly?"

"Your wish...," Draco murmured and slowly withdrew, keeping the head of his cock just inside her. Hermione flexed her hips experimentally, and Draco slid back inside.

"Gods," she said, "it's like you're filling my whole body, somehow."

Draco smirked. "Well, I know I'm big, but I'm not that big!"

She smacked him on the arm. "Keep moving, soldier."

Draco laughed, obeying her order.

* * *

Hermione's pain appeared to be gone, and she met each of Draco's thrusts inside her with moans of desire. But for Draco, it was too much, and before he could coax another orgasm from her body, his own one gave up the ghost and he orgasmed blissfully inside her even while he inwardly cursed his feeble lack of self-control. Hermione held him as he came, dropping kisses on his shoulders and chest.

For fear that he'd collapse on top of her, Draco lay on the bed on his side, bringing Hermione's body to him while he stayed inside her for as long as he could. She flexed her internal muscles a few times, sending mini-orgasmic shockwaves through his cock, which he didn't think was capable of feeling anything at this point. Retrieving his wand, he made themselves and the bed decent before finally lying on his back. He flung an arm over his head and tried to get his breathing under control.

Hermione lay on her side, tucked into his arm. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Anytime," he replied, meaning it.

But let's just take one step at a time.

Eventually, her breathing deepened; she'd fallen back asleep. Draco kissed her forehead gently, then stared up at the ceiling until sleep took him, too.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: I don't know why this chapter is short; it feels like it took me ages to write. I hope it provides you with some distraction during these strange and eerie times. My country is in lockdown, so that should mean I have some extra time to devote to this story. I hope everyone is keeping safe, as well as your friends and family. One day, the world will be back to normal again. A new normal, probably.**

**Note: chapter has a lemon in it**

* * *

They had a leisurely breakfast together in the courtyard, with plenty of _khobz*_ for soaking up fried eggs, dipping into sauces, or scooping up food - much to Hermione's relief, as she thought the villa's house-elf had forgotten to supply cutlery. They ate plump, glistening olives, tangy soft cheese, semolina pancakes dripping with honey or dipped into _amlou_ (a dip made with almonds, argan oil and honey). They finished with fresh grapes, oranges, segmented pomegranates and glasses of sweetened mint tea. _Very_ sweet, Hermione thought. That might take some getting used to.

Looking up, she saw Draco gazing at beach with a goofy look on his face. She smirked.

"You have a goofy look on your face."

He smirked back. "So do you."

"Do I?" She felt her cheeks, wishing she had a mirror.

"It's the 'I just had amazing and fulfilling sex' look."

Hermione laughed. "I'll take your word for it. I guess you've assumed this goofy expression many times before?"

Draco stretched his arms out before linking his fingers behind his head. "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," he said smugly.

As Hermione rolled her eyes behind her glass of tea, Draco scanned his mind for the last occasion he sported the goofy grin. His eyes clouded somewhat when he couldn't remember.

He noticed Hermione swirling her finger around her plate, collecting up the remaining honey. He quickly reached out, grasped her wrist and pulled her honeyed finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it.

Hermione gasped. "Hey! That's my honey!"

Draco leaned across the table, pulling her closer. Their lips met; then opened, tasting the honey. Each other.

* * *

After showering (together, Draco suggested, to save water), they dressed and headed out into the ancient city to explore. They wandered through _souks_ both frugal and luxurious; Hermione feeling at home among the fruit and souvenir markets, whereas Draco, of course, preferred the luxurious, air-conditioned malls chock-full of the priciest Muggle couture clothing.

Hermione came away from the markets laden down with all sorts of little things she fell in love with: shiny pink pomegranates and fat, glossy figs, lengths of bright (lurid, in Draco's opinion) fabrics, purchased for no reason other than their amazing colours and textures; and plenty of bronze and silver souvenirs.

An old woman with a salesperson's gleam in her eye tried to sell Draco an elaborate silver necklace accented with turquoise. "For beautiful wife," she said in accented French. "Will look good on her bare skin." She cackled in an oddly suggestive manner.

Hermione's command of French was still lacking, but she got some of the idea, all right. "I don't need a man to buy me things!" she said hotly to the lady in her best British.

Hiding his grin, Draco stepped back, saying to the bemused woman _"La dame achète ses propres marchandises."**_

But in the end, Hermione was not affronted enough to not buy the necklace – with Draco's help for haggling, of course.

* * *

They headed back to their accommodation later in the afternoon, walking along the road by the beach. Hermione noted "You didn't buy anything today. That's most unlike you."

Draco tapped his nose with his finger and smiled mysteriously. "I have an iron or two in the fire."

Hermione hoped that didn't relate to shoeing horses. Naturally, it was Draco's money and his business, but from her perspective as business partner, she didn't know diddly about managing horses.

* * *

When they got home, Draco took her on a tour of the rest of the property. As it turned out, they were staying in a self-contained apartment on a lush and leafy property that had a much larger villa on it. Wide-eyed, Hermione wandered through the large rooms with windows that let the sun stream through and showcased beautiful vistas of the ocean or the gardens. She could even see a waterfall that cascaded into a large fish pond some way off in the distance.

Their tour ended at a patio that faced the water's edge.

"So, what do you think?" asked Draco nonchalantly.

"It's gorgeous!" Hermione enthused. "And huge. You could fit dozens of people in here and never see them."

"Good for parties," Draco noted. "And for large families."

Curious, Hermione asked: "When you get married, how many children do you want?"

Draco said nothing for a while. Then: "As many as my wife wants."

"What? That's such a non-answer!" she scoffed.

"Well, I can't make her have more children than she's prepared to have, can I?"

"Oh, all right, that's fair."

Draco smirked. "What about y" – but he caught himself in time by biting his lip.

Hermione sighed. "Draco" –

He shrugged and pulled a parchment out of his pocket. "Well, I'm glad you like it," he said, as if the previous conversation never happened. He handed her the document.

Hermione sped-read through it. "You put an offer in to buy this place?" she asked, astonished.

"Yup."

"W-why?"

Draco looked out over the wild ocean. "Because I like it," he said simply.

Hermione was still confused. "Is it a business purchase?"

This time, Draco looked at her. His eyes were twinkling. "No. Just an impulse purchase. I like being by the sea."

Hermione nodded, looking out at its wild, untameable beauty. "Yeah. Me too."

* * *

"Fancy a dip in the ocean before dinner?" he asked.

"Sure, why not?"

"Excellent." Draco headed towards the beach, shucking his shirt and dropping it on the sandy ground.

"Hey! Hey!" Hermione yelled after him. "What about your swimsuit?"

He turned around, trademark smirk in place. "Haven't you ever been skinny-dipping before, Granger?" He toed off his shoes.

"I think you can safely assume that I haven't!" she retorted, albeit distracted by his chest.

"Well, now's a good time to give it a go."

"Out t-there?" Hermione was horrified. "But people might see! They're quite strict about women not being naked in public around these parts."

Draco sighed, shook his head and headed back up to the patio, collecting his errant clothing along the way. "Have it your way," he said, dropping a light kiss on her lips.

Letting Hermione smirk in victory, he took her arm and steered her away from the path to their bedroom. "We'll use the pool instead."

Hermione gaped at him. "There's a pool?" she gasped. "Right next to the ocean?"

Draco's eyes were wide. "Didn't I show you?"

"You know damn well you didn't." Hermione crossed her arms.

"Well then, let me rectify that." Draco escorted her to another gate nearly hidden behind some tall, leafy shrubs. Opening it, he ushered Hermione through and she stared in awe at the massive, limpid, dark blue mosaic-tiled swimming pool. Not Olympic-sized, but big enough for some serious laps to be put in.

She turned around when Draco's belt clinked to the ground. He was nude, just stepping out of his pants. "Last one in's a rotten goblin!" he exclaimed and cannonballed into the pristine water.

"Eek!" Hermione leapt out of the way of the massive splash, then undid her clothing, draping them across a deck chair that seemed out of harm's way. Naked, and very conscious of Draco's dark gaze, she headed sedately to the pool's descending steps. Then she stopped.

I guess now's a good time to give anything a go, she thought.

So with a hollering whoop, she ran to the edge of the pool and copied him exactly.

* * *

**Later **

Draco swam up to Hermione, who was lounging on her elbows on one of the pool's steps. Her pale body rippled through the water, and her high breasts were on display above the waterline to anyone who cared to see.

Draco cared to see. And he'd been hard for some time, now.

He surfaced next to her. "How are you feeling?" he asked, brushing a hand lightly over the curls between her legs.

"Not bad," Hermione replied sleepily. "A little rough internally, perhaps."

"Hmm." Draco's hand travelled up and cupped one of her breasts. "How would you feel about learning a new sexual activity that doesn't involve anything entering you?"

Hermione turned her head to his. They were very close. "Is this where you teach me to suck your cock?" she murmured.

"All in good time," he replied, even though his erection liked the sound of that very much indeed. "I was thinking more of lying you on the ground with your spread legs dangling in the water, while I tongue and lick your pussy and clit until you come as often as you'd like."

Her breath hitched. Then she snaked an arm around Draco's head and pulled his head closer for a ravenous kiss that left no part of their mouths unexplored. She pulled her upper body clear of the water and lay down on the warm tiles, her legs spread exactly as he wanted.

"Like this?" she asked.

"Exactly like that," he replied, allowing himself just a couple of strokes of cock beneath the water.

* * *

"Oh!"

Hermione jumped when Draco's tongue laved her clitoris, coaxing it out from beneath its home. He settled an arm lightly over pelvis, to keep his prize in place. Moving away, he dropped kisses on her thighs, cool from the water, then moved to the gentle folds of skin around her core, gently drawing each into his warm mouth.

He probed his tongue around her core, careful not to go inside, then flattened his tongue and laved it against the bottom of her vagina, moving up to her clitoris and passing over it. Hermione wailed and writhed on the tiles.

He pulled away – she moaned in disappointment – and he returned to the start, repeating it over and over. Except when he reached that sensitive nub, he quickly flicked his tongue over it, relentlessly, until –

Hermione's body trembled and she cried out, clamping her thighs together on an unknown instinct.

Draco wasn't a duffer at this sort of game, so he ducked under her legs in the nick of time. He surfaced next to her, leaning his upper body on the tiles next to her. Water droplets fell off his hair onto Hermione's body, but she didn't care. Quickly he kissed her before stroking his cock urgently. With relief mixed with disappointment, he ejaculated onto the tiles before slowly sinking up to his shoulders in the water again.

Hermione eyed his sperm with speculation. "That's not a lot, is it?"

"Sorry, but that's the best I can do."

She snorted. "I meant, it felt like a lot more when you came inside me this morning."

"Maybe appearances are deceiving." He swam lazily over to his clothes to retrieve his wand and vanished the sperm away.

When done, he helped Hermione back into the water and wrapped her limbs around his body. This time, their kiss was slow and gentle.

"You could have come on my breasts," she smirked.

He smiled a fox's smile. "That's an activity for later," he said.

* * *

In Turkey, Draco showed Hermione how to get on all fours on the bed while he surged into her tight, wet core from behind – and all the variations thereof.

In Greece, he showed her how to ride his cock while she sat astride him, her breasts bouncing with utmost deliciousness right in front of his face.

In Italy, at last, he showed her how to suck his cock just the way he liked it. As he was rather large, she couldn't deep throat him, to her irritation. But Draco showed her that with patience, and practice, comes improvement...

But it was in Spain when something important happened.

* * *

**A/N: It's a good thing. Promise.**

* * *

* bread

** It's supposed to be 'The lady buys her own wares,' but it's by Google Translate, so I've no idea if it's correct. Apologies to French speakers if it's wrong.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N Hi, readers! I hope you're well and that your family and friends are well, too. However, if you have lost someone close to you due to the pandemic, you have my sympathy and sincerest condolences. **

**Before you get started, this chapter needs a few explanations:**

**In terms of timeline, you may be (rightly) wondering how much time has passed up until now, since Hermione does not have a surfeit of it. I wanted certain things to happen at certain places, but not necessarily at certain times, so I didn't commit to ironclad timeframes. But I acknowledge that's rather confusing for readers, so I can tell you that they're eight months in.**

**As for this chapter, **_**La Tomatina**_** happens in August in reality (although possibly not this year, sadly). But because I'm not keeping to ironclad times, it's possible that the festival may happen in the story at another time. I know that sounds weird, and it may not matter in the long run. Oh dear, that sounds even weirder. **

**And finally, all my thanks to Sam Wallflower for helping me with this chapter. **

**Please enjoy.**

* * *

**Buñol, Valencia province **

**Spain **

"Good grief!" Hermione exclaimed as she and Draco narrowly avoided yet another raucous knot of excitable youths on the narrow streets of Buñol. "This place is heaving with people! What are they all here for?"

A raucous youth in shorts and a khaki-coloured t-shirt that said OUT ON BAIL overheard them and slowed down to laugh (raucously). "Tomorrow's _La Tomatina! _Have you been living on the moon, or what?"

"We both just escaped a strict cult where any information about the outside world was forbidden," Hermione said sadly.

"Awesome!" the youth declared, who may have been imbibing a substance that provides a rosy outlook over any situation. "Well, _La Tomatina_ is a festival where you get to throw millions of tomatoes at each other! How cool is that?"

"Uh, why?" Draco asked, not playing a cult escapee. He was genuinely at a loss as to why people would willingly throw tomatoes at each other.

"Search me!" the youth laughed. "We don't ask why, we just throw tomatoes! See ya tomorrow, former cult dudes!" He ran off down the street to catch up with his raucous mates.

Hermione and Draco looked at each other, then at the phenomenal crowds. "Guess we'd better find some accommodation pretty quickly," Draco said.

"Good idea."

* * *

But of course, this was easier said than done. From motel to guesthouse, serviced apartment to hostel, every place was heaving with loud, excitable, beautiful youths and yobbos, all champing at the bit to fling vegetables at random strangers – and have vegetables flung at them in turn.

Eventually, our footsore pair found themselves pushing aside the beaded curtains of a narrow, three-storied guesthouse located in one of the slightly quieter avenues off-off-off the main thoroughfare, called Casa de Santa María. At the nook-like reception area, an enormous plaster statue of the Virgin Mary looked down reproachfully from her exalted position in a cornered recess. Fresh flowers lay at her bare feet. Beneath her, a large woman in a stern black dress and even sterner expression glared at them in seething silence.

Hermione gulped. "Accommodation for two, please?" she asked in her best but stumbling Spanish, gleaned from a phrasebook she picked up at a train station.

The woman looked hideously affronted. Then she replied, in English with an accent so strong you could have grated it and served it with sushi, "Only one room. One bed."

Hermione looked at Draco. "That would be lovely! May we book it, please?"

"NO!" the scary woman shouted, causing Hermione and even Draco to step back. She shook a stubby finger at them both. "You no married!"

With raised eyebrows, the couple looked at each other, then at the lady. "I'm sorry, what you do you mean?" Hermione asked as politely as was able.

The lady nodded at their hands. "No wedding rings! No married! No unmarried hanky-panky happen in house of Santa Maria!" Piously, she crossed herself and nodded respectfully to the plaster statue.

The Blessed Virgin regarded the pair sadly. Clearly, she wasn't going to be of any help.

Hermione's lips thinned. "I think you'll find it's illegal to discriminate" –

Draco, envisioning Hermione's statement ending with them sleeping under a bridge, stepped up to the desk wearing his best Malfoy come-hither smile. "Señora," he schmoozed, "there has been a misunderstanding. If you would be so kind to hold the room for the afternoon, we can obtain the evidence you require in order to let us stay in your beautiful – um – guesthouse."

There hasn't been a woman yet that Draco wasn't able to charm; and this stalwart representative of the accommodation industry was no exception. Although it was jolly hard. She glared at him for a full minute before barking "Until 6pm! No later!" And with that, she sailed off through a doorway behind her (bedecked by another beaded curtain).

Hermione stared at the beads as they clacked together. Then she turned to Draco. "I'm all ears!" she whispered (in case the Virgin Mary was listening). "What are we going to do to get that old bat to let us stay?"

"No sodding idea," Draco shrugged. "But I've bought us some time to think."

* * *

Outside, Draco and Hermione sat at the edge of a water fountain taking up residence in a nearby cobblestoned plaza. Some pigeons, cooling down after a hard morning's grovelling for crumbs, refused to leave their appropriated birdbath for the human interlopers, so both species made the most of the situation.

The cool water must have improved Draco's problem-solving skills. "I think I might have an idea," he said slowly, "but I need to do some research first. Let's meet back here in an hour." He hopped up and held out a hand to help Hermione up.

"What are you going to research? Can I help?" Hermione asked.

He kissed the tip of her nose. "I think I can handle it. Meanwhile, have a look around the shops! There might be a bookstore nearby."

Damn. He knew her Achilles heel. "Okay," she said, with some misgiving.

Draco brushed her warm cheek with his fingers. "It'll be okay," he promised. "Trust me."

* * *

There weren't any bookshops, but Hermione found a boutique that sold cute summer clothes. She was finding the heat a bit much, as she was in jeans and a black t-shirt. Something nice and floaty would do the trick.

The shop was heaving with young, beautiful, skinny tourists, congregating in groups and exclaiming loudly over this and that. Hermione trailed in their wake, putting the items they discarded back on the hangers as she looked for something light and airy.

One of the tops the horde had left on the floor turned out to be exactly what Hermione wanted – a dark blue, flower-patterned, floaty tank top with shoestring straps that crossed over at the back. It went very well with a pair of denim shorts lying nearby and looking lonely. She held up the shorts and looked at them with a critical eye. They were bloody short. Would the legs even cover her arse cheeks? She glanced at the changing area – a corner covered by a curtain – and shuddered. The horde was making full use of it, and it probably wouldn't be free for at least four hours, by her best guess.

Taking a chance, albeit a small one for most people, she headed to the counter without trying the items on.

The young lady at the counter tossed back her long, heavy braid and wiped her brow. "Is so busy!" she exclaimed with a smile. Her pretty face lit up even more when she saw the items in Hermione's hands. "Oh, such beautiful top, yes? I have the same in red! Very eye-catching! Have you tried these on?"

Hermione glanced at the conga line outside the changing room. "I don't have a lot of time," she said apologetically.

The young lady followed her line of sight and grimaced. "I should not say, but those girls are very trying," she confessed in a low voice. "Usually only one buys something! And they leave a mess..." she trailed off when she looked behind Hermione to find the floor and displays looking neat and tidy.

"Oh. I tidied up," Hermione explained. "Force of habit."

The lady's eyes grew round. "Oh, Señorita! You have saved me much work!" She leaned forward. "If these clothes, they do not fit when you try them on, bring them back for exchange. Will be quicker, eh?"

"Thanks," Hermione smiled, and handed over the required money.

As the lady found a carrier bag to put the new clothes in, Hermione's attention was diverted by a dress that was displayed on a headless mannequin near the counter. It was a white, halter-neck dress with drawstring straps that rouched the dress's bodice. The skirt was asymmetric, just about the knee at the front and reaching to the ankles at the back. A floral stencil cut-out decorated the edges of the skirt. It looked like something you could both wear at the beach or on a date with a certain someone.

The lady smiled knowingly. "Beautiful dress, yes? Good for summer wedding. In your size, too."

"Yes, it would be," Hermione replied regretfully. "But I have no weddings to go to."

"You sure? Would look lovely against your tanned skin and lovely hair."

Hermione grinned. "I'll think about it. But I have to meet a friend shortly, so I really must go."

"The lady beamed and handed over the bag. Until then!" she said, then rolled her eyes as one of the horde by the changing room shouted "Oi! Shop girl! You got this in a size 10, or what?"

Hermione headed out of the shop before she and her wand did something to the horde the Ministry of Magic would regret.

* * *

When Hermione reached the fountain, Draco was already there. He looked a bit pensive.

"Hello!" She took his hand and swung it to try and jolly him out of whatever funk he was in. "Did your research yield results?"

"It did, uh, yeah." He shuffled his feet and rubbed the back of his neck.

"You all right?" Hermione asked, worried. She had never seen him look so disoriented. She sincerely hoped he wasn't in the stages of heat exhaustion. He shouldn't be, though. In his light, baggy knee-length sand-coloured shorts and white short-sleeved shirt, he seemed okay, but...

"What are you doing?" Draco snapped.

Hermione removed her hand from his forehead. "I was checking to see if you're running a temperature," she said primly.

Draco relaxed and smiled. "I'm fine. I was just trying to figure something out... but I think I'll go with instinct instead."

Hermione was mystified. "Go with instinct on what?"

Draco took a breath, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. Then he knelt on the ground on one knee.

"Hermione Granger," he said solemnly, opening the box, "will you marry me?"

* * *

Well!

You could have knocked Hermione over with a feather. And there were plenty to choose from, since the pigeons in the fountain could have happily donated one of their own. As it was, they seemed to have stopped their frolicking and were staring at the couple in bird-like awe.

Passers-by, who easily recognised the time-honoured and mostly universal tradition of proposing on one knee, stopped and watched the scene with eager, hopeful eyes.

"This is your solution?" Hermione said in a low voice. "We get married just so we can stay at that horrible woman's guesthouse for a few days?"

"Best idea I can come up with," Draco shrugged. "If you have any better ones, speak now or forever hold your peach."

"'Peace,'" Hermione murmured absent-mindedly. Then she quickly set to thinking. Draco wouldn't be committing himself to her forever, therefore engaging the ire of his socially-climbing parents by marrying a poor Muggle. They might not even find out, given the time she had left.

As for her – what did she have to lose?

They get on with each other, mostly.

The sex is out of this world.

Why not?

Hermione found herself blushing. "Yeah, all right," she smiled.

The crowd cheered as Draco got to his feet and slid a ring onto Hermione's left finger with a smile.

"Bucket list," he whispered in her ear.

* * *

Hermione took a good look at her ring, her heart and tummy fluttering in a strange way for some odd reason. She never thought she'd ever get engaged, for real or for fraud. The rose gold ring held a pink solitaire oval-cut jewel, flanked by four small sparkling white gems. It was simple, unique and perfect, and it looked like it belonged on her finger.

"It's not a Malfoy piece," Draco murmured. "In case you were worried."

Yeah, she kind of was.

"It's second-hand," he continued. "I found it in an antique store and thought it would suit you. All paste jewels and plate. The best I could do in the time we have."

"I love it," Hermione said and kissed him, much to the delight of passers-by. And possibly the pigeons.

She took the ring off to look at it in detail, and noticed that the underside of the ring was engraved. She squinted at it. "What's the inscription say?"

"It says _'Habla bajito si hablas del amor.'"_

"Which means?"

"Can't help you there," Draco remarked. "Must have been engraved by the previous owner's intended."

Hermione slid the ring on her finger. "I'd feel like I was intruding if I found out what it meant in English," she said thoughtfully. "The message is for them, and them alone."

Draco said nothing, looking at her with a glint in his eye. "If you like," he said simply.

"So," Hermione asked her affianced, "what's next?"

"We find a registry office and get married."

"Sounds good. Except for one problem."

"What's that?"

"I've got nothing to wear!"

* * *

**A/N: More next chapter! Let me know if you want the clothes and ring up on my Tumblr.**

**PS: the inscription will be revealed later, and it has a significant meaning, so if you can hold off putting the phrase through Google Translate, I'd be grateful x**


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: The wedding ceremony is completely different to the ceremony as it really happens in Spain. I needed to take a lot of creative licence in order to make this chapter work. To readers in Spain, I apologise. I'd decided on the plot before conducting my research. Oops. **

**The engagement ring and 'wedding dress' are on my Tumblr (Nevernike). While Hermione does have a lot of dresses from previous chapters, it won't do for her to wear something the groom's already seen, so a new dress is the way it's going to be.**

**Chapter 21 Spanish phrase: I'd made an error, which has now been corrected. For those who already put the phrase through Google Translate – you receive a gentle 'tut, tut' plus an 'I'd do the same, anyway'.**

**Note: Dramione lemon. A small one. Don't get your hopes up.**

* * *

But _of course_ Hermione has a dress...

* * *

Leaving Draco sitting outside the dress shop because it's bad luck for the groom to see the wedding dress before the bride tries it on and pays for it, Hermione dashed inside, hoping the white dress was still there.

It was, of course.

Another thing that was also still there was the horde of rude tourists.

Hustling up to the sales counter, Hermione said to the surprised shop owner "I found a wedding I can go to!"

"Already?" the lady laughed. "Whose?"

"Mine." And Hermione shyly showed the ring Draco gave her.

"Oh my goodness!" The lady grabbed Hermione's hands with excitement. "Congratulations! I'm so happy for you! Already you look like the blushing bride!"

Hermione retrieved her hands and put them to her cheeks. It's just the summer heat that was flushing them, right? But when mixed with that tingling feeling in her tummy... and the memory of how sweetly nervous Draco looked when he knelt on the ground... maybe she was feeling excited?

"Where is the groom?" the lady asked.

"Oh, he's just outside the shop" –

In a trice, the lady whipped around her counter and raced up to the display window. "Is he the tall blonde man in khaki shorts and wrinkled white shirt?" she asked, poking her head among the display mannequins.

"Yup, that's him."

"You are _so_ lucky! He is gorgeous! Such colouring, we hardly ever see here! You will make a beautiful couple!"

Meanwhile, one of the horde had finally decided to purchase a bronze micro-mini rouched bodycon party dress and was tapping her fake nails impatiently on the glass counter. "Oi!" she snapped, accompanied by a ferocious chomp of her chewing gum. "I don't want to be in here all day, you know! Some of us have lives to be getting on with."

Her posse grunted and flicked their collective hair extensions in agreement while tapping on their phones.

The shop owner glared at the potential purchaser and marched to the door. "This shop is closed," she snapped, opening it. "Everyone out!" ("Not you," she mouthed to Hermione).

The purchaser's mouth fell so far open in shock that her chewing gum made a bid for freedom by flinging itself to the floor. "You wha'?"

"The shop is preparing for a wedding. Out you go!"

"But can't I just" –

"OUT!"

The purchaser dropped her dress onto the floor in disgust, right on top of her gum and stood on it (deliberately), then flicked her own hair with annoyance. "See what sorts of reviews your poky little shop is going to get on Yelp!" she snapped, and stormed towards the front door, her posse bringing up the rear.

Hermione seethed in silence at their appalling behaviour, and she grasped her shrunken wand through her pocket. With a few twists and some muttered words under her breath while no-one was looking in her direction, she gave the horde a severe case of facial acne – one that would develop over the course of the day to present itself - fully-fledged, pulsating and horrendous, on the faces of those rude women - by the time they woke up tomorrow, just in time for _La Tomatina_. She was angry enough to give them boils, but dialed it down at the last second.

She actually felt a little exhilarated at having done something so naughty, and wondered what Draco would think.

* * *

Outside, Draco couldn't help but notice the shimmer of magic weaving over and through the mass of scantily-clad, sun-reddened women piling out of the shop Hermione just ran into, and wondered what his increasingly-naughty-and-soon-to-be-wife had gotten up to in there. He smirked behind his sunglasses.

And, of course, Draco's presence was not unnoticed by the horde and its putative leader, the one deprived of the bronze bodycon dress. Their vocal bitching about the shop's crappy customer service ceased, boobs were surreptitiously adjusted and arses were surreptitiously shimmied.

Draco let his smirk segue into a sneer, and the horde put their noses in the air and headed to the nearest _tapas _bar.

Meanwhile, back inside the shop, the owner switched her 'shop open' sign from 'open' to 'closed' with a flourish and turned to Hermione. "I insist on helping you with your dress!" she declared, and held out her hand for Hermione to shake. "I'm Maria."

Hermione smiled. A good omen! "Hermione," she replied.

* * *

Hermione tried the dress on, and it looked lovely. However, Maria had her step onto a low box in front of the shop's mirror so she could circle thoughtfully around it, tugging at some of the material here and there. Despite Hermione's gentle protestations that she didn't have a lot of time and please don't make a fuss, Maria dashed off to her cubbyholes beneath the sales counter, and returned, brandishing a sewing kit and a mobile phone.

"This won't take long," Maria promised, slinging some pins expertly into place while speed-dialing her phone. She conducted a short, loud conversation with the other party in Spanish while making some deft nips and tucks that instantly made the dress look like Hermione was born wearing it.

"I have called my mother!" Maria said, ending the call. "She lives nearby and will be able to help!"

Hermione was mystified. "You've done more than enough already" –

But Maria wagged her finger playfully. "A bride needs a dress, shoes and flowers!"

Hermione wasn't sure about the flowers, but she looked down at her rather grubby sandshoes guiltily. She wanted to look the part for Draco.

And herself, obviously...

"Not to worry!" Maria grinned. "I keep stocks of shoes for my window displays! Now, what size are you?"

* * *

As Hermione was tottering around the shop floor in a pair of wedge heels, the back door to the shop banged open and a lovely floral smell preceded the woman who burst through.

Almost hidden behind a ginormous collection of fresh flowers, the lady launched into a torrent of Spanish as she spied Maria. They embraced and kissed each other on the cheeks, then Maria presented the lady to Hermione. She looked almost identically like Maria, but a little more weathered and shorter.

"Hermione, this is my mother," Maria said. "She doesn't speak English so I can translate. Mama" – (in Spanish) "this is Hermione, the bride who is getting married in a hurry."

Maria's mother said "Ahh...!" and eyed Hermione's stomach speculatively.

"No, no!" Hermione said hurriedly. "I'm not pregnant. This is just a spur-of-the-moment thing." She certainly wasn't going to admit that she was getting married just so she could sleep under a roof tonight.

The older woman burst into happy chatter and laid the flowers out on the desk. After taking a few blooms and laying them against Hermione's skin, she set about creating a bouquet. Maria helped Hermione touch up her make-up with the anaemic collection she carried in her purse.

Maria's mama marched up to Hermione and had a brief conversation with her daughter. Maria said "Mama wants you to gather your hair into a loose bun, low at the back, and she has some flowers to decorate."

Slightly alarmed, Hermione did so with Maria's help, letting the odd curl stray naturally from the confines. Maria's mum then threaded little chamomile flowers in Hermione's hair, so they looked like tiny twinkling stars. Maria held up a mirror to show Hermione, and she was almost moved to tears.

"Thank you so much," she sniffled, nearly overcome. "It looks so beautiful."

"_You_ are beautiful," Maria said stoutly, while her mother proudly presented Hermione with a cascade bouquet of purple wildflowers and feathery-light greenery, accented with chamomile flowers. In her wildest dreams, Hermione could never have imagined a more perfect bouquet, and she hugged the tiny matron, trying hard not to cry.

"How much do I owe you?" she warbled to Maria.

"Well, if you return the shoes tomorrow..." Maria grabbed a calculator from a cubbyhole and punched in some numbers. Then she named a sum that was already familiar to Hermione.

"But... that's just the cost of the dress," she stammered.

Maria beamed. "I would never charge for true love! Plus, the flowers are from Mama's gardens, and she loves arranging flowers. She does all the nearby churches."

Hermione made a note to charm her mascara to waterproof itself. This generosity was just all too much.

But Maria was more interested in something else. "Who will be your witnesses?" she asked.

Witnesses! Hermione hadn't a clue. Had Draco arranged witnesses? "Um, I'll have to check with Mal- my fiancé," she said.

Maria grinned. "I have the afternoon off! I can help!"

* * *

Meanwhile, Draco was seriously wondering just how damn long it took a witch to buy a sodding dress, when at last, the shop door dinged open, and a gods-forsaken angel stepped shyly over the threshold.

He was struck dumb by Hermione's delicate beauty. Far from a stiff, formal wedding with acres of satin and lace and formal robes and frowning portraits criticising the bride's weight and Father getting belligerent and Mother in floods of tears –

Here was his bride, informal and ethereal, in a white summer dress and wildflower bouquet, smiling at him. Only him.

And himself, in shorts and a wrinkled shirt, smiling only at her.

Oh my gods... he thought.

I...

He stepped up to Hermione and took her free hand. "You are exquisite," he whispered as he gently kissed her cheek. That cheek, plus the other, rapidly bloomed, and Hermione blinked suspiciously. "I need to fix my make-up," she stammered.

Maria asked her mama to show Hermione where the shop's tiny bathroom was, then turned to Draco and shook his hand firmly.

"I'm Maria," she smiled. "Do you have witnesses?"

* * *

As it turned out, Draco did not have any, and he felt nerves clutch his chest.

"Not to worry!" Maria said. "I can help."

She turned and yelled across the cobblestones at a waiter who was cleaning up tables before the cafe he worked at closed for the day. "Lorenzo!" she shouted.

The waiter looked up. "What do you want, Maria?" he shouted back (in Spanish).

"We need you to witness a wedding!"

"Sure! When?"

"Right now!"

Shrugging, Lorenzo dropped his cleaning cloth and undid his apron. "Papa!" he shouted into the depths of the cafe. "I have to go now to witness a wedding!"

"Ridiculous boy!" came the answer from inside.

Lorenzo ambled over, kissed Maria on the cheeks, then held his hand out to Draco. "Are you the groom?" he asked (in English). "Congratulations!"

"See?" Maria demanded. "This couple got engaged two hours ago! So how come we've been engaged two years but no wedding date is set, hey?"

Lorenzo eyed Draco. "I think you are setting a bad precedent for me."

Draco grinned. Each to their own, and right now, there was nothing in the world more than he wanted to do right now than marry Hermione Granger.

* * *

The wedding was held in a registry office.

Both Maria and Lorenzo agreed that the couple radiated love and happiness, and when they exchanged plain gold bands for rings, Maria's own mascara was in danger of escaping and running away down her cheeks.

Lorenzo found it hard to swallow the lump in his throat as the English couple kissed, and he promised to save even harder for the wedding of Maria's dreams.

* * *

Afterwards, Maria invited the pair back to her parent's house for an impromptu celebration. Lorenzo and his family would be there, plus a few neighbours –just a small, quiet affair, she promised with a twinkle in her eye.

"We'd love to," Draco replied, "but we have something important to do first."

* * *

Draco and Hermione strode confidently through the Casa de Santa Maria's beaded curtain entrance. It was 5:15pm.

When the dour matron finally responded to their repeated bell-dinging, Draco slapped their marriage certificate onto the counter with a flourish. "Do you take Visa?" he asked.

Even the Virgin Mary had no idea how to respond.

* * *

**Later **

**Casa de Santa Maria **

The old lady was as good as her word, and provided the married couple with a room. It was on the plain side, but they didn't need luxury, and it had all the necessities: a bed, a washroom, and privacy.

Their impromptu 'wedding feast', courtesy of Maria, was a happy and raucous affair, with plenty of delicious food, wine and beer. Guitars were produced from nowhere, and people danced on the small space cleared in the courtyard. Even Draco and Hermione self-consciously swayed to a slow song, encouraged by their new friends – their first dance.

Eventually, the happy but weary couple made their way back to their lodgings, avoiding the wistful eyes of Santa Maria as they headed up the stairs. Draco picked the flowers out of Hermione's hair (the ones that hadn't been flung off while dancing), dropping kisses onto her bare shoulders with each one he found.

Eventually nude, the pair tucked into bed. Draco wrapped his body around Hermione's and they both looked at the bright moon that shone through the flimsy curtains.

Reaching for her left hand, Draco kissed her ring finger. "Shall we sleep, Mrs Malfoy? It's been a long day."

Hermione's body shook with laughter and she snorted. "What makes you think I'll answer to Mrs Malfoy?"

Draco's eyebrows hoicked themselves upward. He hadn't even thought this would be an issue.

Hermione wriggled around to face her husband, a smile playing on her lips. The bedsheet fell, revealing her breasts, thus distracting Draco for a moment or two. "I'm keeping my own name, of course."

"Oh, really? What's the point of having a wedding ceremony if not to show the world evidence of our union? We could have gotten ourselves a civil disobedience thing." His fingers brushed over her hard nipples.

"Civil union," she corrected, "but you are right. So... how does 'Hermione Granger-Malfoy' sound?"

Draco rolled Hermione back on to her side and swatted her bottom. "Hermione Malfoy-Granger," he growled by her ear.

Hermione pressed her derriere up against his body. "That sounds quite nice," she replied. "But I'm not going by 'Mrs.' You can get that out of your head right now."

"Don't push me," he muttered.

"You're the one pushing something up against me," Hermione pointed out.

"So I am." Pulling her hair away, he dropped kisses down her neck as his fingers sought her core. Her moan ended on a gasp as he felt her wet and open for him. Raising her leg to fit his under, he slowly eased his cock into her willing body, enveloping it like a glove. They stayed like this, rocking gently together, until they both orgasmed on a long, intense kiss.

As both drifted off to sleep, they each had a similar, fleeting, unbidden thought:

_How will I live without her when she's gone?_

_How will I bear to leave him when I die?_


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Please note the hot air balloon process described in this chapter bears little resemblance to the real thing. It's artistic licence run amok, folks.**

**My descriptions of Norway don't do the country justice. Also, they're probably incorrect in places, for which I can only, and once more, apologise. **

**You might want to fasten your seatbelts; things are going to get a little bumpy.**

* * *

**Norway**

**Morning **

Hermione yawned and stretched, giving Draco a lovely, if too-quick, view of her breasts outlined against her shirt. "Who are we meeting again?"

Draco finished the last of his coffee and strolled to meet his wife – _his wife _ \- at the tall windows of their hotel suite. The sapphire-blue waters and bobbing boats of Oslo Harbour, a short distance away, twinkled at them. Embracing her from behind (a position he'd come to associate as 'theirs'), he said "we're meeting Bjarne Aalberg, the manager of the Norwegian National Quidditch Team. He wants to chat about sponsorship, getting a higher presence in England, that sort of thing."

Hermione's shoulders stiffened a little. "Quidditch?" she said non-committally.

Draco smiled. "Not a great fan?" he murmured, kissing her neck.

"Er... well, that is to say... no. Not particularly."

Draco smirked and turned her around so they stood face to face. Or face to shoulders, since Draco was taller. "Well, you have been working hard over this entire tour," he said. "Therefore, I magnanimously give you the morning off to do with as you please."

"Oh, you do, Mr Malfoy?" Hermione smirked and raised up on her tippy-toes.

"I insist, Ms Malfoy-Granger." He followed this with a kiss to her lips that promised much more to come. Indeed, it was followed by a more intense kiss, hands pressing bodies hard to each other, and certain parts of those bodies stiffening to sensitive proportions.

"You'll be late for your meeting," Hermione murmured against Draco's heated skin.

"I can't help it," Draco grinned as he picked her up and carried her to their already-mussed up bed. "I gave my secretary the morning off and I'm useless without her."

"Secretary?" Faux-outraged, Hermione smacked his arse.

"Ow! Have a care! The Malfoy arse is worth a lot of money."

"Really? I should examine this goldmine more thoroughly..."

* * *

The housekeeping service, who were about to knock on their door, heard the newlywed giggles that transcend all languages, and decided to come back later.

* * *

Hermione didn't really want to sit through a boring Quidditch meeting, that was true. But she also wanted some solo time to sit and think about things that were hard to think about. Especially with a gorgeous husband hanging around.

She headed down to the harbour and paced along the promenade, staring at the water, a shining blue road for ferries, yachts, tugs and a host of other boats and ships she sadly admitted she couldn't recognise.

She found herself at a lovely wharf called Aker Brygge, and while it was a workday morning for most Oslo-ians, plenty of them mulled and mixed around the wharf's restaurants, shops, offices and apartments, all peeking out from beautiful brick or modern glass facades.

Taking an outdoors seat at an upmarket cafe, Hermione ordered coffee and _lefse, _a rolled-up soft flatbread sweetened with butter, sugar and cinnamon. When they arrived, she took a sip of the beautiful brew and slowly crumbled the _lefse _into bite-sized pieces.

_When...?_

_Oh, can I even admit it to myself?_

She took a deep breath, and let it out.

_When did I fall in love with Draco?_

Her useless heart clenched and her stomach knotted.

_When he proposed?_

No, it was earlier than that.

_When he first made love to me?_

Nope, even earlier than that.

_At the Wizarding French Embassy ball?_

No, Hermione, her logic said smugly. You know when.

_Oh Gods, it was... it was... _

_Germany. Neuschwanstein. After he told me why he wouldn't have sex with me._

Hermione shuddered in the breeze. How bloody typical of herself. Slowly filling her lonely, broken-down heart with love for a bloke who confessed he was too scared of hurting her.

She remembered the exact words that made her fall.

_"You need to live for as long as possible."_

And then it grew.

But now she had two rather pressing problems on her hands.

Draco's never told her that he loves her. Does he love her at all?

To be fair, she's not confessed her love for him, either.

And why would they, when one half of the couple is due to die in a couple of months?

Fear gripped her bones.

When she first got the news of her suddenly-shortened life, she was apathetic, really. She'd lived such a beige, unstimulating life that she was rather looking forward to giving it up, if she was honest.

But these past months...

…filled with new experiences, triumphs, failures, laughter, tears, companionship, friendship and the intimacy of making love with a man who touched her body in a way that made her heart and soul soar. Falling in love.

Merlin...

She didn't want to die anymore.

_She didn't want to die anymore._

Tears pricked at her eyes. She stood up and quickly headed back to the hotel, praying that she could hold it together until she reached the privacy of their room.

* * *

**Afternoon **

Draco was filled with excitement. Hermione, rather less so. But she shoved her hands into the pockets of her puffer jacket and smiled the part.

It was Draco's turn to choose an activity for the afternoon, and rather to Hermione's hidden disquiet, he'd chosen hot-air ballooning. The views will be lovely, she told herself firmly. Stop being such a Moaning Myrtle.

They weren't the only passengers for the colossal, silent balloon this afternoon. As it slowly filled with hot air, a family of four joined them at the safety point: a husband and wife in their fifties, a daughter in her early twenties, and a tall, muscular, brash chap in the same age bracket as the girl – the daughter's fiancé, and going by the magnum of champagne clutched in his fist, rather drunk.

"You don't think Chad will be sick once we're airborne?" the father asked, slightly hopefully.

"Of course not, Daddy!" the daughter giggled, hanging off Chad's free arm. He didn't appear to notice. "He has a marvellous ability to hold his alcohol."

Daddy drew in a breath, and his wife patted his arm soothingly.

Draco narrowed his eyes. There'd better not be any incidents around his wife, he vowed. Or there will be Trouble. Oh, yes. With a capital T.

* * *

The balloon was upright and the safety briefing was delivered by their pilot called Sven, who spoke excellent English with an accent that Chad immediately mocked. "He's so good with accents," the girl said admiringly to her mother, who was starting to wish she'd brought a magnum of champagne along for herself and her husband.

Once up in the air, Draco vowed to keep Hermione as far away from this gauche, drunken sot as possible. Which, in a tiny wicker basket filled with seven adults, gas cannisters, navigation equipment and assorted ropes, was a hard ask.

Mummy and Daddy decided to preserve their sanity by chatting to the saner (and only other) couple in the basket. In between admiring the stunning views of the fjords, mountains and meadows, they all engaged in the usual small talk – where they were from, what they did, how long they were staying in Norway, etc. Draco and Hermione gave the couple their Muggle-ised version, and discovered that Chris and Linda Fortescue were from Oxfordshire, semi-retired. Julia (with Chad, giggling as he tried to slop some champagne into her open mouth) was their only child.

"Engaged, I hear?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," they replied dolefully.

"We're just married ourselves," Draco said. Hermione wasn't sure, but it sounded like he was proud. Or was she imagining things?

"Oh, how lovely! Congratulations!"

"Are you talking about us, Mummy?" Julia called , picking the short way over to the group.

"No, dear. This couple just got married," Linda replied, wondering at what point in her daughter's life did her mothering go so phenomenally wrong.

"Ooh, is that your engagement ring? Let's have a look, then!" And without any warning, Julia grabbed Hermione's left hand and pulled it forward.

Hermione, aware of the sound of Draco's grinding teeth, set her own in place and let her hand be pulled this way and that, making sure there was no way Julia could wrench the ring free.

"It's pink!" Julia exclaimed. "Do they do pink diamonds, then?"

"It's not a diamond," Hermione replied. "It's glass. Draco found it in an antique store in Spain."

Julia looked horrified. "But one has to have a diamond for an engagement ring!" she honked. She raised her left hand and waggled it under Hermione's nose, who found herself staring cross-eyed at a solitaire diamond that was practically the size of a tennis ball. "Look what my darling Chad gave me!" she trilled.

"Yes, well, it's, er, quite" –

"Jules! Where's the extra champagne, luv?"

"Oops! Have to go!" Julia giggled.

"They have more?" Linda gasped. And they're not sharing? That's so bloody unfair!

* * *

A little while later, Chris stood next to Draco, admiring the unsurpassable scenery. "That's a lovely ring you found for your wife," he remarked. Draco nodded.

"So, why does she think the stone is paste, and not a rare pink diamond?"

Startled, Draco stared at Chris. Trying to think of an appropriate answer to the question, Draco found that he couldn't, and simply responded "It's rather complicated."

Chris nodded sagely. "I founded a chain of jewellery shops," he explained. "I know quality. Your wife's ring is exceedingly rare and of excellent quality. My daughter's ring, on the other hand," he said, sighing, "is not."

"Oh. Is it a real diamond?"

"Oh, yes, but it's considerably flawed. Chad's motto is 'the bigger, the better.'"

Draco wondered whether he should offer his congratulations or commiserations for the upcoming nuptials.

Then disaster struck.

* * *

Despite Sven's polite reminders, Chad seemed to have a case of ants in his pants, and kept wandering around the tiny basket. Presently he was squished up in a corner against Hermione, who was none too pleased with the arrangement, but there was no space to edge away from him.

As it happened, neither was Julia. Operating under the ridiculous assumption that every woman on the planet lusted after her Chaddy-waddy, she bossily tried to secure Chad's large, sweaty hand and pull him away.

Drunk, startled and slow on the uptake, Chad blearily swung out his arm, only to knock into Hermione full force – sending her toppling over the edge of the basket with a scream that ripped a cavernous hole right through Draco's body.

The air was filled with screams and gasps of horror. While Sven frantically tried to take control of the balloon, veering due to the sudden redistribution of weight, Draco shoved Chad and his stupid fiancée aside, and with his heart in his mouth, leaned over the edge, praying like mad for the best but steeling himself for the unthinkable worst.

Thank Merlin and all his little pixies, Hermione wasn't gone. She was clinging to a rope with both hands in a white-knuckled death grip, looking both green and white, and utterly terrified.

"Hermione! Hold on!" Draco shouted, and reached for the pocket in his puffer jacket where his shrunken wand was stored.

"No!" she shrieked back, more terrified of the consequences for him using magic in such a bizarre Muggle environment, than of her very likely impending death. "Sven can't be... you know... while he's piloting!"

Shit. She was right. If Draco used magic to save Hermione, they'd have to obliviate the others. Aurors might take too long to reach a moving target, so he and Hermione would have to do it. And it was beyond stupid to obliviate Sven while he was piloting the balloon. But the longer he wasn't obliviated, the more likely he'd form lasting memories of the event, and, well... yeah.

"Okay, just hold on, love!" he yelled, and reached over the basket as far as he could. "Take my hand!"

"I can't!" Hermione wailed, tears streaming from her eyes.

Draco tried with all his might to pull the rope up, but to his immense frustration, he could only manage a few inches. A white-faced Chris materialised at his side. With his help, they managed to pull the rope up to a point where Draco could touch Hermione. Giving Chris a sign, he let go of the rope and grabbed Hermione with both arms, heaving her over with a Herculean effort back into the comparative safety of the basket.

Draco dropped to the floor and wrapped Hermione in his arms, more tightly than he'd ever done before. "It's okay, love," he whispered over and over to his sobbing wife, tucking her wayward hair behind her ears. "You're safe now. I've got you."

While Sven accounted yet again for the changes in the balloon's weight distribution, Linda knelt by Hermione's other side, hugging her and issuing the comforting, cooing noises that mums all know by instinct.

When Hermione's tremors and tears ebbed a minuscule amount, Draco stood up and faced Chad and Julia with his jaw set and the Malfoy Look on full beam. Julia was shrieking fit to beat the band, presumably in shock, but the Chadster took it all in his stride. "She's allright, yeah?" he nodded.

Draco bunched his fist and socked Chad in the chin with an uppercut that immediately had him crumpled on the basket floor, out for a duck.

Chris looked at his comatose, almost son-in-law and wondered why his Julia couldn't have found a fiancé like Draco. "Oh, do be quiet, dear," he snapped to his daughter.

* * *

**Late evening **

Hermione and Draco were silent and exhausted as they let themselves into their hotel room. Her lips were still blue from the cold air, and her fingers were white.

When the balloon finally landed back at the base, the basket's occupants were greeted with a sizeable audience: police, ambulances, the balloon company's staff, the staff from the airfield where the balloon company based its operations, various plane-watchers and civilians who listened to the emergency frequency, were in the area, so what the hell; and of course, the media.

Hermione, Chad and Julia were taken to hospital – Hermione to be assessed for shock and minor injuries, Julia because she wouldn't stop being hysterical, and Chad because he was still unconscious. The Police took methodical statements from all parties capable of talking. They were particularly methodical with Draco, who had assaulted Chad mid-air, after all - but the statements from Chris, Linda and Sven made it clear that pursuing any charges against him would be pointless. The man had watched his wife fall overboard from a hot air balloon, after all – stands to reason he would be temporarily incapable of controlling his arms while under such terrible strain. Well, that was the Police's story, and they'll stick to it.

The Police asked Hermione if she wanted to press charges against Chad, but she shook her head. It was a genuine accident, she whispered. That's all.

Inside their rooms, Draco ran a bath while Hermione slowly, tiredly, removed her clothes in the bedroom. Draco joined her in removing his, and he helped Hermione ease into the hot, scented water.

He climbed into the bath behind her, unfolding his long legs and easing them beside hers. He leaned back, and Hermione rested her head and chest against his body. His arms soon found their way around her, and they lay together that way until the water slowly turned cold and the unspoken question between them faded into the background:

Why didn't Hermione's heart give out after having experienced the shock of a dozen lifetimes?

Afterwards, they went to bed. Hermione curled up against Draco's body like a cat, and quickly fell asleep tucked under his arm.

But Draco lay awake for a long, long time.

* * *

**Next morning **

Hermione stirred uneasily, then forced herself awake. Despite the bath the night before, nearly every single muscle in her body screamed for mercy; a cruel reminder of yesterday's adventure.

But it wasn't that which caused her so much pain that she curled into a tiny ball.

The rest of the bed was empty.

Only her luggage remained in the room.

Draco was gone.

* * *

**A/N: readers of The Blue Castle, I know you're chill :) ****Non-Blue Castle readers – it will be okay. Hang on for the next chapter. Promise.**


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: The Robin Hood section probably won't bear any resemblance to any existing Robin Hood plots: book, TV or film. I think I saw the Kevin Costner version once, but that was last century, haha.**

**Possible trigger: suicidal thoughts**

* * *

_Marian knelt by the deep forest pond, hidden to most, except for a lucky few._

_Her heart was twisted in agony; and every breath and every movement she made threatened to tear it apart. Her throat was clogged with unshed tears, and she clamped her teeth together to stop their journey north to her eyes; because once she started crying, she didn't think she would ever stop._

_To think that mere days ago she was agonised by romantic indecision. Guy or Robin. Robin or Guy. She had to choose one to be her mate. But they were two sides of the same coin. To think of life without either one grieved her immensely._

_When both men finally allied against the Sherriff, she entertained ludicrous daydreams of being with them both. What a joke – two prouder men she could not have found in all of England. Each knew she had lain with the other, and weren't happy about it. When good finally prevailed over evil – as it must – they would expect her to choose._

_But she couldn't choose between the men she loved so deeply and differently._

_Now she didn't have to._

_Because Guy and Robin: skilled, brave, battle-scarred heroes - were dead._

_And the pain of their loss was almost more than she could bear._

_**[Trigger]**_

_The peaceful water of the pond hid a dark secret – it was deep and bitingly cold._

_If a person wasn't careful, the water could clasp them in its cold, lifeless fingers and pull them down to hide with its undiscovered treasures below..._

_A dry branch snapped, and Marian looked up. A handsome stag appeared on the other side of the pond._

_Marian didn't dare breathe. A stag was rare in Sherwood Forest; Robin's men would have hunted them all._

_But as she looked on, another stag appeared, and stood near the first. Its coat was scarred, and it looked like it had fought, and won, many battles._

_She'd never seen this before. Here stood two large, antlered stags. Normally mortal enemies who fought for territory and the right to mate with the females, they stood side by side placidly, their eyes on her._

_Marian drew in a ragged breath._

_A third deer approached the pond. A doe. Delicate and pretty, she stepped between the males and nuzzled them both. They each returned her greeting with obvious affection. Then she turned her gentle eyes on Marian._

_Tears trickled down Marian's cheeks._

_She didn't know if the deer were real or an illusion. But as she committed the vision to memory, she knew that now wasn't her time to join her lovers in death, as much as she yearned to._

_She had people that relied on her. A town to support. A castle to maintain._

_She would do what Guy and Robin had always wanted her to do._

_Respectfully, sadly, she whispered goodbye to the deer. They bowed their heads, turned, and walked away._

_The end._

* * *

Hermione snapped the book shut in disbelief. What the hell kind of ending was that?

* * *

**Wizarding England **

When Hermione wearily returned to her anonymous, indifferent flat, there were things she had to do.

First: make an urgent appointment to see Healer Profeus.

* * *

Hermione sat in the chair across the messy desk from Healer Profeus (who seemed to have shrunk even more since her last visit) and fixed him with a stare.

The Healer didn't notice. Maybe he was going blind as well as deaf. "Ah! Miss Granger" –

"Ms Malfoy-Granger," Hermione replied automatically. For now, anyway.

"Oh! My heartiest congratulations!" the tiny wizard beamed. "I must say, marriage seems to agree with you, my dear. You look in the pink of health!"

A corner of Hermione's mouth lifted up. "That's why I'm here, Healer Profeus," she said. "Because in reality, I really should be dead."

"Read?" Healer Profeus squawked. "No, dear, I don't have the time to read the _Daily Prophet_. What's in today's issue?"

Hermione sighed and took his letter out of her bag. "Nearly a year ago," she almost shouted, "you wrote me a letter saying I had a serious heart disease, that I should avoid all forms of excitement and that I would only live for another year if I took great care of myself. However, only a few days ago I fell out of an airborne hot-air balloon and very nearly died. Why, then, did my heart not give up the ghost and stop beating?"

Healer Profeus looked most confounded. "Oh dear, oh dear, that is a conundrum!" he flustered. "May I see the letter in question, please?"

Hermione handed it over, and the Healer donned an enormous pair of glasses with lenses so thick it was a miracle he could see out of them at all. He read the letter at length, once, twice, three times. Just as Hermione's derriere was starting to go numb, he let out a great whoop and said "Ah! I think I have it!"

Hermione, recovering from the unexpected whoop, said "What is it?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I saw another patient the same day as you with a remarkably similar surname to yours," Healer Profeus. "A Henrietta Grainger. The old dear was at least one hundred and twenty-five years old. It was she who had the serious heart disease, my dear, not you. I must have put the letters in the wrong envelopes. Oh dear! What a to-do!"

Hermione stared at the old wizard, aghast. "So what's my actual diagnosis, then?" she stammered.

"Why, nothing more than pangs brought on by stress, m'dear! All you need to do is eliminate the stressors in your life, and you'll live to a grand old age!"

For once, Hermione was completely and utterly speechless.

Recovering with difficulty, she whispered "There's nothing wrong with me?"

Miraculously, Healer Profeus heard her. "Nothing that a change in lifestyle couldn't fix! And I must say, you've done a top-notch job! Why, you're practically unrecognisable from the poor wee creature that saw me all those months ago."

_There's nothing wrong with me. _

Those words would have filled her with delight, once.

But now they filled her with cold and spiky dread.

"What happened to Henrietta Grainger?" Hermione asked, dreading his reply.

"Oh, she died months ago!" Healer Profeus said cheerily. "I imagine her last few months were very carefree, if she believed her heart condition was just a mild one. There are probably worse ways to go."

Hermione stood up and left the room before she could make a medically impossible suggestion to the wrinkly idiot.

* * *

The walk back to her flat was slow and torturous. With each pained step, Hermione felt the cold, familiar bands of anxiety and disappointment curl tightly around her heart. Here to stay.

She stopped on a bridge, looking out over the broad stretch of the Thames below. Boats glided along invisible paths. People scurried past her, on their way to important things over here, over there and over yonder. No one gave her a second glance.

_I've made a terrible mistake. _

_Draco's not just married to me for just a few months; it's for always. Malfoys don't divorce. That phrase might as well be stamped on their crest. _

_The only way for Draco to be free is to – _

_**[Trigger]**_

_The river looked frighteningly far away._

_I can't jump, Hermione cringed. Hermione the Coward reappears after being away for so long._

_But the rings can..._

Shakily, she pulled the rings off her left finger and took one long, last look at the pink glass ring. It was so pretty. Draco couldn't have picked a better ring if he tried.

The inscription inside the ring caught a glint of sunlight and twinkled.

_Habla bajo si hablas amor._

This ring was loved once, Hermione remembered. I can't throw their ring, their happy memories, away.

Now she knew what to do.

She continued her sad, subdued walk back home.

* * *

At her kitchen table, Hermione took a quill and some parchment:

_Dear Draco,_

_I'm not sure why you left without warning, or explanation, but the matter's all moot, now. I saw the Healer about my diagnosis, and it's all a horrible mistake. There's nothing wrong with my heart. The letter I received was meant for another patient. I'm not in imminent danger of dying after all._

_I married you under false pretences, even if I didn't know it myself at the time. Please believe me when I say I didn't mean to trap you into marriage, and I will accept whatever consequences you think are fair._

_I urge you to consider divorce. I know that this is a point of pride for Malfoys, but surely these unusual circumstances pave the way for an exception to be made? _

_Please find enclosed the rings you gave me. I have no right to wear them now. The engagement ring is so lovely; I truly hope it can make another woman happy too, one day._

_I will never forget the months we spent together, Draco. They have been the happiest of my life. _

_I'm so sorry about this mess. I hope one day you can forgive me._

_Hermione._

Slowly, Hermione folded and sealed the envelope, making sure the rings were secure, and with a painful lump in her throat, summoned an owl.

* * *

She dried her tears and took a business-like breath. Next: find a job. She still had a lot of money left over from her time as Draco's secretary, but it wouldn't last forever.

She opened the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that she bought on the way home and turned to the _Situations Vacant_ section. Perusing the columns, her eyes widened when she noted a particular entry.

"You have got to be bloody kidding me," she groaned.

* * *

**Wiltshire**

**Malfoy Manor **

Draco flew through the Floo, with himself and his luggage all congealing into a messy knot on the Aubusson rug in the Floo's hallway. Leaving the luggage to a surprised house-elf to sort out, he set off down the hall in search of his parents.

He found them in the orangery, entertaining a visitor whom Draco barely glanced at. "Mother! Father!" he gasped. "I" –

"You're back, darling!" Narcissa cried, rising up from her chair and rushing over to give her breathless son a hug and a kiss on his tanned cheek, very high up. "What a delightful surprise!"

"It's good to see you too, Mother," Draco replied hastily, "but I have a matter of utmost importance to discuss" –

"Draco, surely we've raised you better than to just ignore a guest?" Lucius drawled with ice in his eyes.

"Uh – oh, yes of course. Forgive me." Draco turned to the guest and bowed. "Apologies for my interruption and rudeness, Madam" –

"It's Miss, Drakey, and you well know it," a familiar female voice simpered.

Draco shot upright. Oh, wonderful. Of all the bloody witches in England, it had to be...

"Pansy!" Draco tried his best to sound not too horrified. "Well! Look at you, here, with my parents."

"Pansy's been keeping me company all these months while you've been away," Narcissa said, beaming at the black-haired hussy.

"I'm sure she has," Draco said without thinking, and hoped his tone wouldn't give him away. "However, a life-or-death situation has arisen, and I need to speak to my Father with the utmost urgency," he said smoothly. "Father, may we speak in the study?"

Lucius was being an ornery old prick today. Just like he was every day. "Pansy has become so close that I consider her practically family," he remarked. "I'm sure whatever you have to say can be said in front of this lovely young lady."

Pansy preened.

Draco gritted his teeth. "Fine," he said. "I need to find a cure for my desperately sick wife, and I wish to utilise all the laboratories and healing facilities Malfoy Enterprises has to help me."

"WIFE?" shrieked Pansy and Narcissa in unison.

Lucius sighed, rolled his eyes and grabbed his cane. Slowly heaving himself up, he headed sedately to the door, Draco hard on his heels, leaving a stunned Narcissa to comfort a hysterically sobbing Pansy.

* * *

Hermione's letter to Draco took some time to be delivered, as Draco was racing around the country in a desperate effort to find a cure for Hermione's heart condition. That incident on the hot air balloon cemented a belief he'd been dancing around for a while – he was head over heels in love with Hermione, and he didn't want her to die. Not now; not ever, if he could help it.

Eventually, the stoic little owl finally cornered Draco in a laboratory in Wizarding Aberdeen, dropping the letter off with no small measure of relief.

It was Hermione's writing, Draco noted with guilt. He really shouldn't have left without telling her. But the idea of finding a cure just took hold of his senses, and the sooner he could start, the sooner he could come back to her with a cure. And then he could tell her that he loved her with all his heart and soul.

After feeding the knackered owl some treats, he slit open the envelope, and gave a start when Hermione's rings fell out and rolled onto his desk. What?

When he read Hermione's words, his heart soared with elation – only to plunge into the very bottom of the pit of despair.

Hermione's heart is okay!

Hermione wants a divorce.

She's going to live!

A divorce?

I'm so damned relieved!

No way in Godric's green hell are we divorcing!

Grabbing Hermione's rings, he rushed to the laboratory's Floo.

* * *

**Ministry of Magic**

**Archives **

Yes, by some unfortunate streak of something approximating luck, Hermione found herself back in the Archives at the whim of a gloating Madam Tombend.

"What fortune, that all those other assistants I hired couldn't even last a week!" she crowed from her desk while magically fixing her make-up. "Why, it's divination itself!"

"Yes, Madam," Hermione replied neutrally from high up a ladder.

"And of course I won't be expecting any more backchat from you, will I, Miss Granger?"

"No, Madam," Hermione replied.

"No ridiculous novels poked in amongst the shelves?"

"No, Madam."

"No telling Mr Asquith about any secret little hidey-holes?"

Hermione suppressed a sigh. "No, Madam."

Madam Tombend huffed and opened the _Daily Prophet._ "You're not much fun today," she remarked. "Lucky we don't get customers; you'd probably frighten them away."

Hermione brushed a silent tear from her cheek. "Sorry, Madam," she whispered.

Madam Tombend was on a roll. "And another thing" –

The doors to the Archive burst open, and a gorgeous, blonde man hustled in. "Where is she?" he cried.

Hermione froze on her ladder, not daring to look around. That voice...

Madam Tombend rose up from her desk and patted her hair into place. "Here I am!" she trilled.

Draco pulled up short. "Who are you?"

Madam Tombend puffed out her chest. "I," she said grandly, "am the Chief Archivist, the witch you have surely been searching for!"

"Great!" Draco cried.

Madam Tombend blushed and giggled.

"Can you tell me where Hermione Malfoy-Granger is, please? Potter said he saw her heading to this place."

Madam Tombend's mouth fell open.

Hermione guessed it was too late to hide. "Here I am," she said, climbing slowly down the ladder, wondering what fresh hell she would find when she reached the ground.

"Hermione, thank the gods!" Draco rushed over, but the look on her face made him decide that wrapping her in a big hug and never letting her go could wait for later. "I'm sorry I left without warning" –

"It's okay," Hermione muttered, rubbing her arms and wondering why it was so cold in the Archive. "I -I suppose you're here to discuss the terms of the divorce?"

"Discuss a divorce? Am I, hell!"

"Language, young man!" Madam Tombend, hovering nearby, had her nose firmly out of joint.

"Oh, shut up, you old bat!" Draco snapped before turning to turning back to Hermione. "Hermione, I" –

"How DARE you!" Madam Tombend thundered, her face turning purple.

Draco pulled out his wand and turned the interfering old witch into a statue.

"Now, before I was interrupted," Draco continued, "I left so suddenly because after that nightmare balloon ride I realised I couldn't live without you. I didn't want you to die, and I had to try and find a cure for you as soon as possible."

Hermione's mouth fell open.

"Don't you see?" Draco cried. "I don't want to divorce you! I love you! I want to be with you, every day and night, for the rest of our lives, not just a few more weeks!" He pulled the engagement and wedding rings out of his pocket. This ring, right here? I wasn't entirely truthful about it, because I didn't know whether you loved me in return. But the inscription – I had it made just for you."

Shakily, Hermione touched the ring. "What does it mean?" she whispered.

"It means 'speak low if you speak love.'"

Hermione knew her Shakespeare. "M-Much Ado about Nothing?"

Draco nodded. "I loved you, even back then," he murmured, "but I couldn't tell you. I didn't want to frighten you or, worse, find out that you didn't love me. So if I was to speak of love, I had to do it subtly."

Hermione swallowed hard. This beautiful, thoughtful, AGGRAVATING man...

"If you don't love me," Draco murmured, "at least give us some time? Will you think about it?"

A tear slid down Hermione's face, and Draco braced for the worst. "I do love you," she said on a wobbly smile. "I've loved you for months, but I didn't realise until the day of the balloon ride."

Draco's face broke into a smile. "You love me?" he breathed.

"Yup. Do you love me?"

"Absolutely." Draco reached for her left hand. "Will you wear these rings again, my love?"

Blushing, Hermione nodded, and when Draco slid the rings back on to her finger, they felt like they never left.

Draco gently raised Hermione's face to his, and their kiss was the most perfect ever seen, except, of course, their only witness was frozen in an expression of comical outrage.

He pulled Hermione into a long hug, his body grateful to feel the warmth of hers again. "Uh, there's something else about the ring I should come clean about."

"Hmm?" Hermione said, burrowing into his shirt. "What's that?"

"The ring isn't costume jewellery. It's a rare pink diamond set in 24-carat gold."

Hermione blinked. Then: "You're shitting me."

"Afraid not. I wasn't sure how you would have reacted, me buying an expensive ring just to ensure we had a bed for the night, so..."

Hermione started laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"I nearly threw it into the Thames!"

Draco blinked. "Now _you're_ shitting me."

Hermione chortled. "No, I very nearly did!"

"Merlin's tits!" Draco expostulated... then he started laughing, too. "That is kind of funny."

They hugged and kissed again until they were quite robbed of breath.

"Uh, so... do you want to keep working here?" Draco asked later on, his clothes somewhat askew.

"Good Godric, no," Hermione snorted, hair in disarray. "Guess I'll have to resign again."

She peeled away from Draco, found some scrap parchment and scribbled _I quit. Good riddance. Hermione Malfoy-Granger. _She took the parchment and pasted it onto the stone witch's chest, in the hope she'd eventually discover it when the spell wore off, since it would be literally under her nose.

She held out her hand. "Shall we go, Mr Malfoy?"

He took it on a smile. "Where do you want to go, Ms Malfoy-Granger?"

"That's a bit of a mouthful, isn't it? I think I'd like to be called Ms Malfoy, now. And as for where – anywhere, as long as I'm with you."

Draco tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "I will make your every wish happen," he promised, and the couple sailed through the Archive doors. "Cross my Heart."

The end.

* * *

**A/N: **So, that's the end of _Cross my Heart._ I hope you enjoyed it!

This is the last fanfiction story I'm going to write, at least for a while. I'm not sure whether I want to retire from writing fanfiction or go on hiatus, but I think I'm burned out and I need to step away.

I used to love writing fanfiction, but the past year has been difficult, particularly with trolls. It's gotten to the point that every time I receive a guest review I cringe, expecting some form of unintelligible abuse. I know that trolls troll not because of anything I've necessarily written, but out of their own warped perspectives and the ability to bully anonymously. If it was just the trolls, I might have stayed on. But I have books I want to write, and fanfiction was taking up most of my writing time because I loved writing it. But I don't love it anymore. Having health problems over the past year hasn't helped, either.

I'll probably go on hiatus. Hopefully I'll rediscover my love for this genre and come back with some more stories. There's still a spark of love there, deep down. I love writing for the many, many readers and reviewers who enjoy my stories, and it's because of them – you - that I pushed myself to finish this story when at times I felt like abandoning it.

So, goodbye and thank you, lovely readers. I hope we'll meet again x

NeverNik


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